Arizona Highways, September 1996

ARIZONJ.\
HIGHWAYS
SEPTEMBER 1996 VOLUME 72 NUMBER 9
•..................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................•
COVER STORY PAGE 38
Tales of the Past Lure Rail Travelers
John Rose is the engaging raconteur aboard the
San Pedro and Southwestern Railroad, spell-binding
passengers with legends of the Old Southwest and the
characters who spawned them. Come take the scenic
train ride through the country Tombstone and Wyatt
Earp made famous.
(LEFT) The camouflaged moth
in this photograph illustrates
why few of them are seen in
the daytime, says our expert.
See portfolio on page 22.
MARTY CORDANO
(FRONT COVER) Spectacular
scenery and history highlight
the train excursion from
Benson to onetime wild and
woolly Charleston. See story on
page 38. ERROL ZIMMERMAN
(BACK COVER) Cottonwood
trees line the banks of the stream
flOWing through Canyon de
Chelly, where a jeep caravan
explores geologie wonders
and Indian ruins. See story on
page 12. GEORGEH. H. HUEY
DEPARTMENTS
INDIANS
Navajo Storytelling
Invited to a Navajo family
storytelling session, our
author gathers tales from the
Holy People, ancient stories of
the natural world and man's
place within it. PAGE 32
TRAVEL
Jeep Touring
in Canyon Country
Dodging quicksand and
fording floorboard-high
streams fail to deter our
backcountry travelers from
exploring the rich and
colorful past of canyons de
Chelly and mysterious del
Muerto in Navajo Country
PAGE 12
PORTFOLIO
The Moth and the Flame
Set a spell with our
"moth person" in the
Huachuca Mountains
and catch the flame of one
man's everlasting passion
for moths. And find out why
you don't see many moths
in daytime. PAGE 22
MINING
Arizona Gems
Find Worldwide Markets
What Cheri Saunders
found was a pale blue vein
that turned out to be harder
and more delicately colored
than any gemstone she'd seen.
But what was it? PAGE 10
Along the Way
I didn't shoot Bambi's mother.
Letters 3
Wit Stop 44
How to lose a fortune and not move from your deck chair.
Legends of the Lost 46
Was the treasure of Rancho de Los Yumas lost or merely spent?
Arizona Humor 48
Roadside Rest 49
The trials and tribulations of Yavapai County growth.
Back Road Adventure 50
Mountain bikers tackle the Buenos Aires wildlife
MilepostslEvents 54
Hike of the Month 56
A seven-mile exercise in
HISTORY
Tales of Tombstone's
Bird Cage Theatre
"The theater became the
Southwest's most famous
vaudeville playhouse, and
even today," says our author,
"almost 120 years later, it is
still being written about and
visited by tourists, who can
only try to imagine what
went on there during its
heyday" PAGE 18
RECREATION
Lees Ferry, a Haven
for Humongous Trout
"There are trout in this
river that can still make my
knees quiver," says fishing
guide Terry Gunn as he and
our author fish the Colorado.
PAGE 4
HISTORY
The Turkey Legend
of Henry C. Hooker
Henry knew he had a
money-making idea as soon
as he thought of the turkeys.
But no one had ever herded
gobblers before. PAGE 36
2
POINTS
OF INTEREST
FEATURE.D
IN THIS ISSUE
Arizona Highways 1
ALONG T HE WAY
•................................................................................................................................................. ··························· .....................................................................................................•
A Thick Slice
of Prime Rib
Excites Those
Primal Urges
Lt me make it clear
at the outset that I
am not the person who
shot Bambi's mother. It
may have been my dad or
my brother, who between
them probably killed
about as many deer as
there are commas in this
piece. For some reason,
even though I grew up
in the wilds of north
Idaho and my dad and
brother were dedicated
hunters, I never developed an
interest in hunting. I tried, but
it just wasn't in me.
It wasn't that I had some
moralistic attitude about shoot­ing
animals for food, although
I did enjoy the movie Bambi as
a boy, and I remember crying
when his mother was shot by a
hunter. But understand, I grew
up routinely seeing deer and
bear hanging by their back legs
in our garage, watching them
being skinned, smelling the
puddled blood, then eating
them with my family.
When I left Idaho and came
to live in San Francisco (which
is, incidentally. named for Saint
Francis, the patron saint of an­imals),
it was inevitable that I
encounter my share of the gar­den
variety vegetarians who re­gard
meat-eaters as wicked
and/or misguided people. A
while back, while on my way
to a prime rib dinner as part
of a celebrity function I was
covering as a journalist, I dis­covered
the following hors
d'oeuvre for thought on a post­er
affixed to a telephone pole:
MEAT IS MURDER. There also
2 September 1996
TEXT BY LARRY TRITTEN
ILLUSTRATION BY ROB WIEDEMAN
was an ancillary sermon ex­plaining
why.
Vegetarians tend to be a
pious bunch who don't em­phasize
a vegetable diet be­cause
they love vegetables but
because they believe that kill­ing
animals is wrong. Person­ally
I can respect the feeling
that motivates that point of
view while remaining an un­repentant
carnivore.
Many things in life seem un­fair
when you put them on an
idealistic graph. One of the facts
of Nature is that there are two
kinds of animals: those that eat
grass and those that eat the ones
that eat the grass. (Vegetarians
should note that in a sense all
flesh is grass.) If you happen to
be one of the grass-eaters, it's a
bad deal. It means that you've
got to spend your whole life
looking over your shoulder,
like an accountant who made
off with some Mafia money.
And you're never going to get
much sleep or be able to sleep
very deeply. The only animals
that sleep soundly are the pred­ators.
The average antelope on
the veldt will catch a minute or
two of sleep at a time, with luck,
and some plains animals that
are always being hunted actual­ly
sleep with their eyes open.
Cats, the most serious pred­ators
of all, have earned the
right to sleep much of the time
strictly because they have a
biological heritage of not living
in fear of being eaten like the
animals they prey on. They're
fortunate enough to be the eat­ers
instead of the eatees. Cats
need meat in order to live -
they live by eating life. So if
you're a vegetarian who moral­izes
about killing animals for
food and you like cats, then
you're hardly being logical
about your ideals. I like cats
and am not disturbed by the
fact that they are in essence
vampires incarnate.
As a boy I had a .22 rifle,
but tin cans and bottles were
my prey. I just couldn't get into
going after animals, including
the countless birds my dad
and brother constantly stalked.
But I did do some fishing, pos­sibly
because it didn't require
as much dramatic commitment
as hunting game, was a much
more leisurely activity, and
usually yielded quicker
results. I suspect that the
kind of lake fishing I
used to enjoy is to
hunting game roughly
what playing slot ma­chines
is to playing poker.
Well I don't hunt, but I
just can't imagine a buffet
where salads are the sole
bill of fare. lf Noah really
did get all of those animals
to coexist on his ark like
the amicable menagerie in
Rousseau's painting The
Peaceable Kingdom. I sus­pect
it was just until they
could resume their natu­ral
roles of predators and
prey when they returned
to the land.
And I'm bored by the argu­ment
that meat is murder, espe­cially
corning from those who
have any leather in their ward­robe,
on their books, and so on.
As a mammal, I'm stuck with a
racial heritage that includes
hunting, herding, and farming.
I'm not personally hooked on
the challenge of the hunt (sure­ly
not as long as there are wait­ers),
yet a good prime cut stirs
something primal in my ap­petite.
That's why when 1 go
back to Idaho to visit, I look
forward to eating some elk or
bear meat if I can get it- ex­otic
meat not available to
most people.
I enjoy seeing animals an­thropomorphized,
too , as in
Bambi. I'm a carnivore with a
sense of humor. It's interest­ing
to note that Disney's most
successful film, The Lion King,
gives equal time to predators,
which have upstaged the deer
at the box office.
As for Bambi, l'm more curi­ous
about why all of those par­ents
named their daughters
after a male deer than I am
about who shot his mother. n
LETTERS T 0 THE EDITOR
. ............................................................... .. .... .. . ..................................................................................................................................................................................... .
ARIZON~
HIGHWAYS
SEPTEMBER 1996 VOL. 72, NO. 9
Publisher-Nina M. La France
Editor-Roben j. Early
Managing Editor-Richard G. Stahl
Associate Editor-Rebecca Mong
Photography Director-Peter Ensenberger
Art Director-Mary Winkelman Velgos
Deputy Art Director- Barbara Denney
Associate Art Director- Russ Wall
Production Assistant-Vicky Snow
Managing Editor, Books-Bob Albano
Associate Editor, Books- Roben J. Farrell
Circulation and Marketing Director­Debbie
Thompson
Finance Director-Roben M. Steele
Fulfillment Director-Bethany Braley
lnrormation Systems Manager- Brian McGrath
Production
Director-Ondy Mackey
Coordinator-Kim Gibson
~ign Manager- Patricia Romano McNear
Governor-fife Symmgton
Direaor, Depanment ofTranspona1ion
Lany s. Bonine
Arizona T ransponation Board
Clulirman: Sharon B. Megdal. Ph.D., Tucson
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Spnngerville: Burton Kruglick, Phoenix;
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PRODUCED IN THE USA
Unhappy with Complaints
The April issue contained
more than the usual amount
of rancorous letters complain­ing
about your magazine. There
were comments from the centi­pede
and javelina haters, horse
lovers, and even the ecofascists.
What can I say. You can't
please everybody.
My wife and I look forward
to your magazine each month.
As far as 1 can tell, you are apo­litical.
The photographs are
beautiful. Tom Dollar may or
may not be weird, but at least
he is not trying to tell me
where to drive my jeep.
Folks who don't like cen­tipedes
should step on them.
Don't like j avelinas? Buy a
hunting license.
Down on Cows
Steve Ruff
Vienna, VA
I am disappointed in recent
articles about cow-related activ­ities,
such as cattle drives and
rodeo schools.
In the history of the western
United States nothing has been
more detrimental to the land
than cow grazing.
Furthermore, terrorizing an­imals
by roping, throwing,
jerking, and riding them is in­humane.
To glamorize these kinds of
activities is to participate in
them.
Tim Lengerich
Sierra Vista
Wide Open Spaces
I'm here to tell Charles Sellers
of Knoxville, TN ("Letters,"
April, '96) that God gave us
Arizona. Man gave us cities,
and we are choking to death
in them.
Until you have seen the dust
roll across the desert, seen
the colors change every hour,
listened to the coyotes howl,
chased a few mustangs, killed a
few jackrabbits, packed mules
with grub to set camp in the
high country for summer cattle
grazing, shot the heads off a
few rattlesnakes, swallowed a
mouthful of gnats while doing
it, cooked for a crew of real
cowboys who helped settle this
state, you have yet to under­stand
what Arizona is all about.
Most folks are moving out of
cities as fast as their money will
take them.
Dorothy Gray
Gold Beach, OR
The Typo's in the Mail
As a magazine editor, I live
in dread of typographical er­rors,
which nearly always man­ifest
themselves when the latest
issue is already in the mail.
But I was delighted with one
in jim Boyer's entertaining ar­ticle
"Climbing I'itoi's Sacred
Mountain," April '96.
The author describes in skin­crawling
detail his travails in
climbing Baboquivari. One par­ticularly
apt phrase describes
an ascent:
"We eeked our way up cracks,
wiggled up a long chimney in
the rock, and clambered onto a
long horizontal shelf."
Kathryn Smiley
Tucson
Kathryn describes herself as
someone who eeks at the very
thought of spending a night
suspended on a cliff face. In
that regard I guess all editors
are alike.
Travel Book
I've just returned from a va­cation
in Arizona and want to
compliment you on your excel­lent
book Travel Arizona. It is
well-designed, clear, and easy
to use. I traveled many of your
recommended routes (l ,500
miles total) and found your di­rections
easy to follow and
your descriptions of points of
interest accurate.
Your book added quite a bit
to making my trip an enjoy­able
one.
H. Clay Minor
Norwalk, CT
History Section
I subscribed to Arizona High­ways
because of the beautiful
pictures of a beautiful country.
l don't like the special history
section (April '96) with the
ugly drawings. lf this contin­ues,
I will have to cancel my
subscription.
William H. Avery
Truckee, CA
The April issue has added
pages to accommodate the
history section without sacrifidng
our normal run of stories and
pictures. We intend to do that
every April to build up to our
75th anniversary in April, 2000.
Second Time Around
Your publication has been a
constant source of entertain­ment
and pleasure for me since
the rnid-1940s. This past win­ter,
1 began to reread every
issue.
Each one is beautiful, infor­mative,
and has the ability to
lower my blood pressure sever­al
points.
May your magazine never
reach its final issue.
james Ajahnke
Seattle, WA
Happy Visitor
I began coming to Arizona as
a result of your magazine,
specifically the November '73
issue. I visited Kitt Peak then
and have been returning ever
since.
I enjoy your humor section.
I also read the "Letters to the
Editor" and find as much hu­mor
in them, especially the
ones with complaints.
john G. Lawton
Oklahoma City, OK
Arizona Highways 3
THE RIVER AT LEES FERRY
SEE THAT MY GUIDE, TERRY GUNN, IS WORRIED.
We are in Glen Canyon, halfway between Lees
Ferry and Lake Powell, motoring through the
swift and dangerous currents of the Colo­rado
River. "Anything wrong?" I ask as I poke
around for my life jacket.
Terry's grim look suggests the greatest crisis since
the Black Death. "We should have midges plastered
all over our teeth by now," he tells me.
For most people, bug-free teeth would be some­thing
of a blessing, but not for Terry We are out here,
he reminds me, to catch some legendary Lees Ferry
trout, fish that somehow - secretly it seemed -
grew to monstrous proportions from 1963 to 1976,
the period between the completion of Glen Canyon
Dam and the moment of their discovery by fisher­men.
For a few years, rainbows in the 15- to 20-
pound category were almost common here.
Then the biggest trout disappeared, their decline
caused by too many anglers. New and stricter fishing
regulations seemed to resolve the problem, but a se­ries
of water studies in 1990 accidentally wiped out
the aquatic food supply, leaving the surviving trout
with enormous heads attached to skinny bodies.
We are here today, however, because the big trout
are fat again, and this time they are defended by reg­ulations
that both restrict kills and guarantee ample
water flows.
But back to the midges.
These tiny winged insects
seem to stoke the appe­tites
big Lees Ferry
trout like honey would
for a bear. So no midges
early in the morning couLd
mean tough fishing the
rest of the day
Nevertheless, we de­cide
to stop and test our
luck a half mile from the
8 Mile Bar, a gravel de­posit
named for its dis­tance
from the launch
site at Lees Ferry While
we stalk the 48° F. river in
insulated waders, Terry
explains some of the spe­cial
techniques I will need to catch Lees Ferry trout.
"This is big water," he tells me, "and the fish are
scattered, so you have to spot them first and then
make a fairly long cast. That's why people travel here
from far away Lees Ferry is one of the few places in
the world where you can routinely sight cast to large
rainbow trout."
The river's strong current initially defeats my cast­ing
technique. Terry, for his part, nearly goes hoarse
from cries of, "Mend! Mend!" by which he means
that, after each cast, I should pull gobs of extra line
from my reel, shake it down the rod, and then throw
it upstream as fast as I can. The reason for the mend
is simple. Without it, the fly line will float ahead of the
fly, tending to drag it downstream in a most unflylike
manner. This alerts the trout to shut their mouths.
6 September 1996
AROUND
MY KNEES.
After some practice, I start to get the knack, but
our fish tally remains solidly at zero. Terry grumbles
the guide's lament: "Iwo days ago, we'd have landed
a dozen trout already"
But two days ago was before the barometer started
hopping like a frog on a pogo stick. First a freak
􁪽􋴚􁪽􋴚􁪽􋴚􁪽􋴬,,􁪽􋴚􁪽􋴭-sn€>􁪽􋴲2torm raced across northern Arizona, then a
􁪽􋴚􁪽􋴭- brisk qld front blew out the clouds. Now a sizzling
clarity.has descended on the canyon, making the
landscape pop out in all three dimensions.
This stunning backdrop tests my concentration. Be­side
me, polished sandstone walls play host to flow­ering
redbud trees. In back, a stupendous bighorn
sheep stands etched into the cliff by ancient hands.
And right in front of me, a swallow darts between my
hands as I tie on a fly. How can I keep my eyes on the
water? I feel the whole canyon reverberate in stark
contrasts: impenetrable shadows and diamond-sharp
reflections, frigid water and burning sand, immutable
rock and fleeting pink blossoms. Even my body re­sponds.
Hot gusts sweep my face while the river
froths like iced champagne around my knees.
In the midst of all this, a large shadow navigates
through the bubbly past my legs. Trout. A brawny
fellow. He fins over to join his colleagues who are
lined up like trucks waiting to be loaded. Won­dering
if they might want to fill up on some im-itation
midges, I offer
them a dry fly called an
"Adams." But the trout
ignore it completely, pre­ferring
to stare off at the
scenery instead.
"Let's go," Terry orders.
We clamber back aboard
his 20-foot riverboat and
drive farther north. At a
spot called Russell's Place,
we jump out onto another
sunken gravel bar, and this
time Terry rigs our lead­ers
with "scuds": orange
flies that imitate freshwater
shrimp. Then we spread
out, Terry taking the dif­ficult
hard-running cur­rents
at the head of the bar.
On his first cast, he strikes a trout. The fish jumps
boldly and streaks for the middle of the river, but
Terry quickly brings it around. Soon he is releasing
a 17-inch rainbow brightly splashed with rouge-col­ored
gill plates and crimson-blotched sides. "A
spawning male," Terry tells me as he watches the fish
swim off unharmed. "Isn't he beautiful?" I notice the
WHILE THE RIVER
FROTHS LIKE
ICED CHAMPAGNE
TEXT BY
RICK HEFFERNON
PHOTOGRAPHS BY
RICHARD MAACK grimness has gone.
(PRECEDING PANEL, PAGES 4 AND 5) Guide Terry Gunn
casts for trout in the Colorado River at Lees Ferry.
(ABOVE) Author Rick Heffernan wades in 48° F water,
where the canyon walls come down to the river.
(RIGHT) Gunn and Heffernan work upstream, fishing
the crystal-clear waters below Glen Canyon Dam.
THE RIVER AT LEES FERRY
Terry quickly hooks another fish, and another,
each one similar in size and color to the first. Then
it is my turn. At the head of a sluggish eddy, I spot
a four-pack of trout rocking like sunken boats against
the bottom. I strip out 40 feet of my floating line and
cast above them, letting the current carry my scud
to the fish. When the fly has floated within a foot or
so of the pack, a pan-size fellow swishes out of
nowhere, snatches the scud, and cruises forward a
yard or two. Instinctively I shoot my rod up in the
air and haul back to set the hook, but the fish keeps
going, taking fly, leader, and my rising hope along
with him.
"What happened?" I ask Terry. "How did that little
guy break my line?"
"That 'little guy' was two and one-half pounds,"
Terry says softly. "I think, maybe, you set the hook
a bit hard."
I ponder this mistake and decide my problem is
simply one of scale. Nowhere else would I confuse
(RIGHT) Heffernonfrees a trout according to
catch-and-release regulations at Lees Ferry.
(BELOW) Gunn observes Heffernon'sfly-casting
technique and offers helpful tips.
(OPPOSITE PAGE) Late light breaks through to
illuminate the Vermilion Cliffs on a stormy evening.
/;1_lj.J$iJ_.1?'f"j'5􁪽􋵟_􁪽􋴱1IllJ:irQ'!ll7U_'!V'f_..--/'
C"
a two-and-one-half-pound lunker with a pan-size
trout. But I will discover I'm not the only one here
troubled by a poor sense of scale.
We are working another gravel bar, where the
algae-covered rocks roll like bowling balls underfoot.
A nice trout rises to eat my scud, and I promptly set
the hook, gently this time. To my surprise, the fish
barely moves. Instantly Terry is at my side delivering
a high-speed flurry of instructions: "Ready now.
Loosen some line. He's gonna run, so be prepared.
There! Give him line. Let him go. Good ... now get
ready. He's slowing tum him around. Okay, strip
in line ... quick haul it in faster. Now, rod tip
over to the right. Lift his head up. Out of the water
... lift. Do it!"
But I don't lift fast enough, and the trout swirls
angrily, shaking from tip to tail before he plows off
to the depths. I feed out line furiously in an attempt
to keep up with him. Am I still attached? I think so.
But then my line goes slack.
Terry pokes me. "Strip in line," he commands.
"Hurry!" So I haul in armloads of line, letting it coil
at my knees before it drifts downstream in the cur­rent.
Finally I feel a tug - the fish - and then I
feel his weight dragging against each yard of recov­ered
line.
"Lift that rod," Terry urges next. "Be aggressive.
Get his head up." I force the butt end of my nine-foot
TROUT IN
THIS RIVER
THAT CAN STILL
MAKE MY
KNEES QUIVER.
fly rod toward the sky, and the tip doubles
over on itself, tracing a delicate arc that cul­minates
in a silver and red torpedo. Terry
glides over to gently support the fish by
its belly.
''Twenty-two inches long," he says. "Three
pounds-plus. A beauty." He unhitches the
barbless hook from the trout's lip, and we
pose for pictures until our guest departs in
a ripple of cool power. Afterward I ask
Terry to explain a small red gash I noticed
on the trout's back.
"Oh," he says, "that was probably where
8 September 1996
WHEN YOU GO
a great blue heron poked him with his bill."
"You're kidding," I say. "Why would it try
such a thing? No heron could ever handle
a three-pound fish."
Terry shrugs. "Who knows?" he says.
"Herons seem to have no sense of scale."
Ah, I nod. That's my problem here, too.
Later, on the return ride, I question Terry
about his own sense of scale. As a profes­sional
guide, he must catch and release big
trout on a daily basis. Is there any thrill left
for him at Lees Ferry?
"Rick," Terry says, "I have seen more
Best time to go: Fishing in Glen Canyon is good in any season
because the river temperature stays constant at about 48° F
The most pleasant air temperatures occur in spring and fall.
Getting there: Lees Ferry is located in Glen Canyon National
Recreation Area, approximately 275 miles north of Phoenix.
Take Interstate 17 north 146 miles to Flagstaff, then U.S. Route
89 north another 111 miles, then U.S. Route 89A for 14 miles
to Marble Canyon where signs indicate the five-mile access
road to Lees Ferry. A developed campground and boat launch
area are available.
Where to fish: The best trout fishing is in the 15 miles of river
between the boat launch site at Lees Ferry and Glen Canyon
Dam. Some shore fishing is possible in the first mile and a half
from Lees Ferry, otherwise power boats are necessary. Because
of dangerous river currents, a guide is recommended.
Guides: Lees Ferry Anglers books fishing trips with Terry Gunn
and several other guides. Rates average between $200 and $300
per day depending on the number in the Boat
three-pound fish than you'd care to think
about, but, believe me, there are trout in
this river that can still make my knees
quiver." He pauses while I visualize a trout
the size of a Nautilus submarine with gills
and a rainbow stripe down its side. Then
Terry adds, "And there will be more when
we learn to protect them." n
Pine-based Rick Heffernon preViously contributed an
article about attending a fly-fishing school. He considers
his Lees Ferry experience "the final exam."
Phoenix-based Richard Maack says he used to fish for
fish but now angles only for photographs.
also are available. For more information, call toll-free (800)
962-9755. Names of other local guides may be obtained by
calling businesses in the area, such as Marble Canyon Lodge
at (520) 355-2225.
Fishing tips: A new state law directs that "fish shall be taken
only by artificial lures and flies with barbless hooks" on that
portion of the Colorado River from Glen Canyon Dam to
Marble Canyon Bridge (Lees Ferry) in Coconino County.
If you do not have barbless hooks, use pliers to close the barbs
on your hooks. Bring the fish in as swiftly as possible. Keep
the fish in the water and do not squeeze it. If you anticipate
difficulty dislodging the hook, cut the leader. Allow a tired fish
to completely recover before releasing by holding the tail with
one hand and supporting the fish under the
belly with the other hand. Point the head
upstream and gently move the fish back
and forth so the gills begin pumping
oxygen. The fish will swim off when ready.
Arizona Highways 9
CHERI SAUND E RS AND HER OPAL MINE
truck lurched to a stop at the edge of
ocky creek bed in the Atascosa Moun­ns
a few miles north of the Mexican
border. Mike Anderson reached for the
lever to his right.
"Time for four-wheel drive," he said,
pulling the gearshift into low.
We inched our way up a nearly vertical
hill, following a road that was well on its
way toward returning to Nature. Occasion­ally
rocks the size of footballs spun away
from the rear wheels, tumbling into ravines
and disappearing into thickets of gnarled
oaks and juniper trees.
"Believe it or not, when I started pros­pecting
this area this road was even worse,"
said Cheri Saunders as the tires hit a hole
and jolted her into Mike's shoulder.
"A year or two ago, a TV reporter from
Tucson wanted to come out here to do a
story on our opal mine. We'd barely got
started down these hills when she had
to get out of the truck. She
couldn't handle it. She
thought we were going to
tum over and roll down the
side of a mountain. This is
very rugged country around
here. Most people don't re­alize
how rough it is."
It took a full hour to cover
the four miles between Ruby
Road and the Jay-R Mine,
where Saunders found the
first of her rare blue opals
and launched a rocks-to­riches
saga some 2 7 years
10 September 1996
ago. The find was the sort
of thing that rock hounds
and prospectors dream
about: a pleasant day wan­dering
in the Arizona out­back
that leads to a decent
income and a satisfying
vocation.
A
ROCKS
TO
SAGA
TEXT BY SAM NEGR I
PHO TOGRAPHS BY JEFFREY A . SCOVIL
"I prospected all these hills looking for
goodies," Saunders said, pointing to the
rises that flank Ruby Road between Arivaca
and Pena Blanca Lake about 60 miles south
of Tucson.
was a pale blue vein harder than turquoise
or malachite and more delicately colored
than any gemstones she had previously
seen. But the truth is, at the time, Saunders
didn't know what she had found.
"A prospector doesn't look for just one
thing, you know. A pros-
Saunders interrupted her narrative on
pector is an adventurer. I
wanted to find a new poc­ket
somewhere that no­body
had ever found, and
I did."
What Saunders discov­ered
in that winter of 1969
(ABOVE) Cheri Saunders uses a pick to dig out some rock
at her opa1-rich]ay-R Mine.
(BELOW, LEFT) The mine sits in rough country in Santa
Cruz County. Vehicular travel here is slow-going.
(BELOW, RIGHT) Gemstones found at Saunders' mine
are natural blue opals.
the past as Anderson stopped in front of a
wall of gray rock about seven feet high. She
pointed to a vertical white stripe about as
wide as a butter knife.
"When you see that, you're probably
going to find opal," she said with authority
'This is mostly quartz and chalcedony here,
but it's an indication that there may be opal
underneath. There is a slight difference in
the opal-bearing rock that we can detect.
Well, maybe it's the other way around. We
certainly know what rock not to find it in.
There's a lot of that."
In 1969 neither Saunders nor her hus­band,
James, realized they had stumbled
upon a rare deposit of blue opals. Prospec­tors
who originally came west in the 1950s
to search for uranium, they had contem­plated
Arizona's geologic conundrums long
enough to realize that what they had found
in the Atascosas was very unusual, even if
they didn't know precisely what it was.
Years later the Gem Trade Laboratory of
the Gemological Institute of America ana­lyzed
samples from the Jay-R Mine and
confirmed them to be natural opals, in this
case blue ones.
Unfortunately James Saunders did not
live long enough to realize the extent of
the bonanza his wife had struck. The cou­ple
had staked six claims on the property,
which is a part of the Coronado National
Forest, in 1970, but James died of can­cer
in 1973. TheJay-R Mine became his
memorial.
Before his death, James had taught his
wife some basic mining skills. She knew a
little about drills and jackhammers and
how to set a dynamite charge. The couple
also had bought a lapidary kit from Sears.
For a while after James' death, Saunders
worked the opal mine alone, bringing the
raw minerals back
to her home and
cutting and polish­ing
the stones.
At the same time,
she took courses in
jewelry-making.
Eventually she met
Mike Anderson, an
avid outdoorsman,
and they became
partners in quarry­ing
the opals. For
several years, they
painstakingly extracted the opals using a
primitive drill, dynamite, and then long
crowbars to pry through the fractured rock
in search of the best deposits. In the pro­cess,
they moved tons of rock in small
wheelbarrow loads.
Eventually Saunders and Anderson moved
15 miles north of Sierra Vista to Whetstone,
where they had the convenience of a gallery
and workshop. At the time, Saunders was
making pendants and bracelets and ear­rings,
using settings she had designed and
opals she had mined, and selling them at
crafts fairs at Fort Huachuca. That's where
representatives of the Tucson Gem and Min­eral
Show, one of the world's largest markets
for gemstones, found her.
"These people looked at our opals and
told us it was pretty nice stuff, and they sug­gested
we write a letter to the board of the
gem show and that maybe we'd eventual­ly
be accepted as participants," Saunders
recalled.
A few years later, she and Anderson
were accepted as exhibitors at the show,
and their blue opals began to attract the
attention of geologists and museum cur­ators
from around the world. Specimens
from theJay-R Mine are now
(ABOVE) These opals were cut and polished. The largest
one, center; measures nine millimeters in width.
displayed in natural history
museums in Vienna, Austria,
and Ottawa, Canada, among
(BELOW, LEFT AND RIGHT) Saunders sells jewlery, created other places.
with opals from the ]ay-R Mine, at her art gallery. The
opal and gold brooch is 4.6 centimeters wide. An exquisite
piece of opal was set in silver for a stunning pendant.
Saunders and Anderson
spend a month a year working
from a makeshift camp on
their one remaining mining claim. The rest
of the year they cut and polish stones and
make silver and gold settings for them.
They sold or swapped the rest of their
claims. In one case, they sold a half interest
in a claim to a man who agreed to grade a
passable road to their worksite.
Once they reach this remote spot, the
backbreaking work may be very profitable,
or it may be simply backbreaking.
"Our experience has been that we move
tons and tons of rock for a little bit of
opals," said Saunders "When we hit the
high grade, it's wonderful because we've
got good quality precious material that
sells for as much as $200 a karat. But if
we don't hit high grade, we've got a lot of
lower-grade material that sells for be­tween
$4 and $12 a karat.
"The difference between high grade and
low grade is determined by the play of
color in the opal," Saunders noted. "It's
the sparkle within the actual opal. The
background color is blue, but in the high
grade, you'll see flashes of color; it's like
a star sapphire. You'll see this star play­ing
across the top of the stone. It's like a
rainbow."
All of the labor has evidently paid off.
Saunders now sells blue opal jewelry all
over the world.
"I guess we're doing okay now," she said.
"At least I was finally able to retire our old
yellow wheelbarrow and buy that small
dozer. That's something!" ~
Author's Note: Opals from Chert Saunders'
mine are available at the Jay­R
Mine Opal Art Gallery,
PO. Box 4951, Huachuca
City, AZ 85616. Call for di­rections,
(520) 456-9202.
Tucson-based Sam Negri has
found plenty of adventure in
southern A1iZ011a but no gemstones.
He also wrote about the San Pedro
and Southwestern Railroad
excursion in this issue.
Phoenix-based]effrey A Scovil
is a longtime mineral collector. He
says the beautiful scene1y helped
him forget the bumpy road leading
to the]ay-R Mine.
Arizona Highways 11
TEXT BY ANN L. PATTERSON
P HOT 0 G RA PHS B Y M 0 N T Y ROE SSE L
CANYON
DECHELLY
he speedometer needle pointed
to eight miles per hour, some­times
dipping to five. It was
Saturday, and we were four­wheeling
the watery arroyos
and rutted roadways of the beautiful and
wild terrain near Chinle on the Navajo
Indian Reservation in the far northeastern
part of the state.
But at a crawl.
Our caravan consisted of 55 Jeeps from
nine states divided into groups of five, each
one with a guide. Destination: Canyon de
Chelly (pronounced "shay").
The organizer of our weekend adventure,
Georgetown, California-based Jeep Jam­boree
USA, ranks its Canyon de Chelly trip
a two to four in difficulty; one meaning
highway-smooth and 10 so rugged the ter­rain
is virtually impassable, even for a jeep.
We were warned, however, that the rating
could jump to eight if it rained hard, caus­ing
the stream running through the canyon
to flow dangerously high and fast.
It stormed the Thursday before we ar­rived.
A deluge came down again Fri­day,
and it was still drizzling that evening
when we checked into our motel in Chinle.
Saturday dawned clear and sunny, but be­cause
of the heavy rainfall, we found our­selves
fording streams with water up to the
floorboards.
Oh, and did I mention quicksand?
Quicksand lurks in the canyon stream­beds,
and nobody seemed to know exactly
where. Scary.
(PRECEDING PANEL, PAGES 12 AND 13)
Our author joins aJeep caravan and
Navajo gUides to explore the beauty,
mystery, and perils of Canyon de Chelly.
(LEFT) One of the Jeeps fords a watery
arroyo, taking care to avoid the qUicksand.
(ABOVE) The caravan heads into the mouth
of the canyon.
(RIGHT) John and Krista Edwards lurch out
of the streambed near White House Ruin.
Leon Skyhorse Thomas, our half-Navajo
and half-Sioux guide, told of cars disappear­ing
into the quagmire without warning. He
said a friend, honored as Guide of the Year
in an elaborate ceremony, watched the very
next day as a car under his guidance sank
beneath the sand. "It's safe to say there are
15 vehicles that have gone down in these
canyons," Thomas said.
As if on cue, a Jeep up ahead stalled
and started to settle. Alert drivers nearby
stopped, tossed over snatch straps, and
managed to pull the trapped car free. Our
guide was unimpressed: "Don't ever stop
your vehicle in the water," he scolded.
Drivers joining a Jeep Jamboree usually
arrive prepared for trouble. They equip
their four-wheel-drive vehicles with tow
hooks, tow straps, extra gas tanks, and
winches. Ready, they hope, to handle any­thing
and get on with having a good time.
On our trip into Canyon de Chelly,
Thomas rode ahead in a vintage World War
II "flat fender." Using a walkie-talkie, he ex­plained
to us about the cliff dwellings and
the cliff writings high above us.
"The Anasazi built their homes on the
north side of the wall - up high - but
they planted down below," he said. "That
way they were away from the flash floods,
and they were safe from any enemies." The
Anasazi, who occupied these canyons from
about A.D. 348 to 1300, grew corn, beans,
squash, and cotton, while bartering with
other tribes for feathers, shells, and, tur­quoise.
Archaeologists believe the Anasazi
were the ancestors of today's Zuni, Hopi,
and Acoma Indians, he added.
Thomas belongs to the Tsegi Guide Asso­ciation,
which means he knows the rocks,
ruins, and relics of Canyon de Chelly inti­mately
"I grew up playing in these ruins.
Of course that was before I knew any bet­ter,"
he said, acknowledging that over the
years he had learned to appreciate the need
to protect the ruins.
Canyon de Chelly National Monument is
shaped roughly like the letter V, with Can­yon
del Muerto (Canyon of the Dead) on
the north and Canyon de Chelly on the
south. Cliffs towering as high as a thousand
feet border the two canyons, about 18 and
27 miles long, respectively.
Thomas observed that the Anasazi vil­lages
could be reached only by lashed-to­gether
ladders and torturous climbing
using toeholds. This fact seemed to amuse
him. "Can you imagine the wife telling the
husband, 'Go down and get me a cup of
water'?" he inquired.
Thomas helped us understand what the
rock writers wrote. Under his tutelage we
saw deer, snakes, lizards, birds, turkeys,
star clusters, and handprints, as well as
sha pes like a reverse swastika, circles,
zigzags, and what are best described as
squiggles. Thomas admitted, though, "A
lot of these petroglyphs I don't even try to
interpret. "
At one ruin, while watching red-tailed
hawks soar beneath the azure skies, we
asked Thomas about the people who live in
the canyons today. He said some 50 Navajo
Arizona Highways 15
CANYON
DECHELLY
families reside there in hogans, half hidden
by stately willow and cottonwood trees, cul­tivating
com and beans, harvesting peaches,
and herding sheep. Most stay in the can­yons
only during summer and leave as win­ter
approaches. A Navajo woman selling
jewelry at the base of Antelope House in
Canyon del Muerto, where we lunched,
later told me, "Oh, I couldn't live down
here all the time: no TV, no electricity."
The Navajos value their privacy and do
(LEFT) Navajos living in the canyon herd
sheep and cultivate vegetables and fruit.
(BELOW) David Bailey, one of the caravans
Navajo guides, talks about some of the
many petroglyphs found in the canyon.
(BOTTOM) Katie Melloy came with her
parents from Farmington, New Mexico, to
explore Canyon de Chelly.
(RIGHT) The Walden family, also from
Farmington, fords some deep water.
not like being photographed without their
permission. "Some of these people are bit­ter
that strangers come into their homes all
the time," Thomas said.
Each year some 760,000-plus people
visit Canyon de Chelly National Monu­ment.
Many of them explore the canyons
hiking the trails on foot; others buy tickets
to tour in what the locals call "shake and
bake" trucks, so named because the huge
panel-side vehicles give passengers a good
jostling on the rough roads and do not pro­vide
shade from the hot summer sun.
Individuals are not permitted to drive
through the canyons on their own. So tak­ing
our four-wheel-drive vehicles on a guid­ed
tour was a real treat. We were able to
penetrate both canyons and with the help
of our knowledgeable guides to interact
with people who share our reverence for
Nature, history, and the Navajo way of life.
Unfortunately the time allotted for ex­ploring
the canyons ran out all too soon. As
the afternoon shadows lengthened, we re­traced
the bumpy, winding roads back to­ward
the entrance.
That's when we ran into a surprise.
Following the stream as it twisted and
turned between the narrow canyon walls,
we suddenly saw our view open up ahead.
We came upon a group of children frolick­ing
in the stream, young Navajo mothers
wading the shallow waters, and teenage
boys galloping bareback across an exposed
spit, their ponies splashing all who ven­tured
close.
At the sight, the caravan slowed. Our
drivers worried they were intruding upon
a private festivity and felt unsure how to
proceed.
Then the young people smiled. Waved.
Soon we, too, were waving and laughing
and joining in the fun. What a joyous con­clusion
to our first Jeep Jamboree in Can­yon
de Chelly National Monument. n
Author's Note: Jeep Jamboree USA oper­ates
20 trips annually to various locations,
with the organizers stressing safety and re­spect
for the environment. Arizona's only
Jeep Jamboree is held in June. For informa­tion,
call toll-free (800) 925-JEEP
For more information on Canyon de
Chelly National Monument, write or call
PO. Box 588, Chinle, AZ 86503; (520)
674-5500. The park is open every day of
the year, except Christmas, May to Septem­ber,
8 A.M. to 6 P.M., and October to April,
8 A.M. to 5 P.M. The Navajo Indian Reser­vation
observes daylight-saving time from
April to October, so it is an hour later there.
Admission is free, but tours of the canyons
must be arranged and accompanied by
park rangers (advance reservations are rec­ommended)
or private, licensed guides.
Photo Workshop: Join photographer Jerry
Sieve and the Friends of Arizona Highways,
the magazine's support auxiliary, on a Pho­to
Workshop trek into Canyon de Chelly,
October 2 to 5. The trip, led by a Navajo
guide, offers the opportunity to explore the
magnificent canyon in a way that few expe­rience
it. Added to that is the chance to
pick up photography tips from an expert.
Jerry Sieve's images appear regularly in the
magazine. For more information, call the
Friends' Travel Office, (602) 271-5904.
Tempe-based Ann L. Patterson, a veteran ofJeep
Jamboree trips in Colorado and New Mexico, was thrilled
to go on one of the outings in her own state.
Monty Roessellives in Kayenta on the Navajo Indian
Reservation. As a youngster, he would ditch school and
float on an inner tube through the Canyon de Chelly
spring run-off He also contributed the photos for the
article in this issue about Navajo storytelling.
Arizona Highways 17
l l V .u U T ( .u
I R D
T
E
X
T
B
Y L E a w. B A N K S
L L U S T R A T a N s B y
R
U
S
S
W
N 􁪽􋴰 0 N' 􁪽􋵌
L
s
a
N
H' E
IT STARTED IN JULY, 1880, WHEN AN OPERA HOUSE
MANAGER PAID $600 FOR A PLOT OF LAND AT THE
SOUTHEAST END OF TOMBSTONE'S ALLEN STREET. BILLY
HUTCHINSON'S DREAM WAS TO BUILD A THEATER IN
WHICH RESPECTABLE CITIZENS MIGHT FEEL AT HOME.
What he got was a cramped boxlike adobe structure,
which, from its December 23, 1881, opening, and contin­uing
nightly for the next two years, was packed to the doors
with dusty cowboys, day-wage miners, and assorted drifters,
droolers, and reprobates, each perfectly willing to collapse
into a guzzle-and-holler frenzy at the sight of the winking
chorus girls parading before them.
The Bird Cage Theatre went on to become the South­west's
most famous vaudeville playhouse, and even today,
more than a century later, it is still being written about, por­trayed
on film, and visited by tourists, who can only imag­ine
what went on there in the roaring days.
The truth of the place is often hidden behind its legend,
and over time the two have become interwoven. But it's un­likely
Hutchinson could've imagined tales as colorful as
those told about the Bird Cage.
Several were compiled by author Pat Ryan for the pub­lication
of the Tucson Corral of the Westerners in 1966.
There's the one about Methodist preacher ].E. McCann,
Arizona Highways 19
20 September 1996
who insisted on climbing onto the theater
stage one fine Sunday morning to bellow
his sermon. He found his audience atten­tive
to the point when the men assembled
before him suggested the reverend perform
a little dance. He refused.
After a second request produced the same
response, a cowboy drew his pistol and shot
off McCann's boot heel. At that he danced
like a black-coated fool, and shortly there­after
caught the first buggy headed east.
Another story comes from old-time ma­gician
Charley Andress, who recounted a
performance of Uncle Toms Cabin that he
witnessed.
'Just as Eliza was crossing the icy river in
that play," reported The Arizona Daily Star
in May of 1930, "a drunken cowboy in the
audience became excited and shot the
bloodhound that was pursuing her.
"After something of a fight the cowboy
was lodged in jail and the show continued
minus one good hound .... The cowboy
was somewhat the worse for his beating
when he sobered up, but was penitent and
shed tears over the dead dog, offering
money and his pony in recompense."
From its first days, the Bird Cage was a
sensation. The January 4, 1882, Tombstone
Epitaph commented that it was "fast becom­one
of the most popular resorts of the
thanks to its modern conveniences,
as the gas-fired jets that bathed the
in light.
Hutchinson's only misstep was "ladies
" It lasted one evening because not a
female showed up. That failure rein­the
notion that respectability meant
bankruptcy, so Billy kept on giving his au­diences
what they wanted.
as an old handbill from the 1880s
makes clear, it wasn't Shakespeare: "Gro­tesque
Dancing, Leg Mania and Contortion
Feats in which they [the Healey Brothers]
stand positively alone."
Then there was Mrs. De Granville, "the
woman with the iron jaw." Her gift was
picking up heavy objects in her teeth. And
jig dancer Pearl Ardine, who could "pick
up money thrown her and place the same
in her stocking without losing a step."
But the most popular by far were the
variety acts and rowdy leg shows that
kept the crowd stomping, spitting, and
spending. In his book Tombstone: An Iliad
of the Southwest, Walter Noble Burns cap­tured
the scene in this passage:
"Seated on wooden benches, the au­dience
guzzled whiskey and beer and
peered through a fog of tobacco smoke at
vaudeville performers cutting their capers
in the glare of kerosene-lamp footlights.
Beautiful painted ladies in scanty costumes
sang touching ballads of home and mother
on the stage and then hurried to the boxes
where, by their voluptuous charms and
soft graces, they swelled the receipts of the
downstairs bar and received a rake-off on
every bottle of beer they induced their ad­mirers
to buy.
"When the performance ended, the
benches were moved against the walls to
clear the floor, and the crowd reeled in the
drunken dances until the sun peeped over
the Dragoons."
The gullibles lined up early to have their
pockets turned inside out. Admission was
50 cents. Day-wagers from the Lucky Cuss
and other mines took seats on the bench­es,
while the bosses and their big hats re­paired
to the balcony boxes.
The shows got under way about 9 P.M.
William Hattich, former editor of The
Tombstone Prospector, said patrons often
showered the stage with coins when "a
vivacious actress scored a popular wave
of approval."
In correspondence with author Pat Ryan
some 80 years after the theater's heyday,
Hattich also said that shootings and may­hem
presented only occasional problems
for management. A far bigger headache
was replacing the show girls who quit to
marry lonesome pioneers.
But it was "honeymooning" not marriage
that was on the minds of those cavorting in
the curtain-shrouded cribs. Each box sat
six men, and some suggested the cramp­ing
resembled that of a bird cage, hence
'the name.
Another version, published in The Ari­zona
Star on August 18, 1882, has it that
the name came about because the boxes
had so many "doves" in them.
Those doves - soiled though they might
have been - were one way Hutchinson
kept his customers interested. He also
wasn't above pulling a few stunts.
One night, in response to a drunk who
was heckling the performers from his box,
Hutchinson marched onto the stage and
pleaded for quiet. But that threw the heck­ler
into an even louder fury.
With reluctance, Hutchinson made a
show of ordering his bouncers to eject the
man. The audience stared saucer-eyed as
bouncers surrounded his box. Then came
shouting, the sound of a tremendous fight,
and finally the crack of a pistol.
Spectators couldn't believe their eyes
when the heckler's body came sailing out
of the box and onto the stage. But the body
landed softly - it was a dummy stuffed
with straw.
The Bird Cage's wild reputation proba­bly
helped with its bookings. Whenever
the stage rolled into town carrying new
performers, Tombstone gathered to inspect
the talent.
Famed comedian Eddie Foy played a
two-week hitch there in 1882. He later de­scribed
the theater as a coffin, because of its
shape, but he paid the place a compliment
by saying he wasn't shot at or hit with cab­bage
there.
Pat Ryan wrote that comedienne Nola
Forrest graced the place in 1883, but it was
her off-stage act that keeps her in memory.
It seems that the beautiful- but married
- Nola took up with a bookkeeper named
J.P. Wells and so turned his head
that he began embezzling cash
from his employer to keep his
love in jewels. Alas, this did not
keep her at his side, and Wells
did not profit from the lesson.
After Nola reconciled with her
husband, Wells took up with "an­other
well-known woman of this
burg, who completed the finan­cial
wreck begun by Nola." Ryan
wrote that Wells eventually left
town a broken man, and in June
of 1886 was reported drowned
in the Gila River.
Performer Lizzie Mitchell is re­membered
because of her unfor­tunate
decision, while suffering
from what The Prospector called
violent pains, to swallow a dose
of morphine.
"Not being an expert in phar­macy,"
the paper reported, "Lizzie
got an overdose, and but for
friends who compelled her to
walk until five o'clock this morning, she
would now be an angel."
Professor Ricardo, known as a wonder of
wonders in feats of legerdemain, "Hindoo"
juggling, light and heavy balancing, and
sword swallowing, met a bad fate, too.
Two weeks after doing his act, it was dis­covered
that the good professor was actu­ally
Edmund Don Lober, a deserter from
Troop D, 4th Cavalry, at Fort Huachuca. He
was given a bed at the town jail.
But even poor Edmund was better off
than the girl standing on the Bird Cage
stage waiting for a sharpshooter to blast
an apple off her dome. In the wings stood
Pat Holland, Tombstone's newly elected
coroner, who thought the shooter was tak­ing
far too much time squinting down the
B I R DCA GET H EAT R E
barrel, so he grabbed the weapon and
blazed away.
Holland assumed the weapon was load­ed
only with wadded-up paper, according
to a report in The Territorial Enterprise of
Virginia City, Nevada. But he soon learned
that someone had charged the gun with
buckshot.
"Pat not only knocked the apple all to
pieces," said The Enterprise, "but a bunch
of hair, half as big as a man's fist, was car­ried
across the stage and struck the oppo­site
wall."
Hutchinson's ownership of the Bird Cage
ended in 1883. The theater languished for
three years until Joe Bignon, known as "the
irrepressible showman," took over and
used his considerable skills to resurrect it.
"It was a poor day if we didn't take in
more than $2,500," boasted Bignon, who
had been a circus and minstrel performer
and was best known for a dance he did
while wearing a monkey outfit.
In the finale, he hooked his monkey tail
over a wire and swung above his audience.
One time his tail broke, depositing him on
the lap of a spectator. Refusing to let the
incident force him out of character, he
jumped up and scratched his head like a
monkey and bounded up behind the cur­tain
out of sight.
buying the Bird Cage in January,
1886, Bignon renamed it the Elite and went
to work doing whatever it took to keep the
acts coming and the customers paying.
He even hired two men to conduct a
six-hour walking match on a specially con­structed
track. It was a big deal, and bets
were taken. "The money is up, in the
hands of one of our responsible citizens,"
one paper reported, "and the parties mean
business."
So did Joe Bignon's beloved wife, Minnie
Branscombe, a pianist, singer, ballet dancer,
and sometime hooker. When Minnie and
Joe performed together, he billed her as
"Big Minnie, six-feet-tall and 230 pounds
of loveliness in pink tights."
But drunks who caused a row in her
husband's business quickly learned that
Minnie was no mere dainty. She would
wrap her arm around a troublemaker's
neck and toss him into the street.
The decline of the mines meant the same
for the theater. Even Bignon's
torchlight publicity parades down
Allen Street couldn't arouse
enough interest to keep the show
going. About 1892 he sold the
building and left Tombstone for
the nearby gold town of Pearce,
where he died in 1925.
Other owners made revival ef­forts,
but they failed as well, and
the great theater stayed silent
for almost 30 years. Its doors
opened again for the first Hell­dorado
celebration in 1929. Five
years later, it reopened as the
Bird Cage Coffee Shoppe, then it
became a souvenir stand. Today
it's a popular tourist attraction.
But none of its reincarnations
could erase what the old stage
had been, or silence the "birds
in gilded cages" who sang there
over so many nights, and still
do, if only in legend. n
Additional Reading: To find out
more about Tombstone and the surrounding
area, we recommend Tucson to Tombstone, a
guidebook by Tom Dollar. The full-color 96-
page softcover book is jam-packed with sto­ries
and legends of the region and takes you
over its trails from the desert floor to ripar­ian
canyons and alpine forests atop majestic
mountains. Also included are maps and
travel tips. The book costs $12.95 plus ship­ping
and handling. To order, telephone toll­free
(800) 543-5432􁪽􋵩 in the Phoenix area or
outside the U.s., call (602) 258-1000.
Leo W Banks always visits the Bird Cage Theatre when
he is in Tombstone. He lives in Tucson.
As a youngster, Jacksonville Beach, Florida-based Russ
Wilson traveled to the West Coast in summer via
Tombstone in a '69 Pontiac with no Stilt
he says, Tombstone was "really cool.
21
SPHINX
L
IN HIS YOUTH, MOTH FANCIER NOEL MCFARLAND OFTEN PROWLED AFTER DARK
OUTSIDE SALOONS IN SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA, HIS HOMETOWN. HAVING THOR...
OUGHLY RECONNOITERED THE NEIGHBORHOOD, HE AND HIS MOTH-COLLECTING
buddies knew exactly where all
the best neon tavern signs were
- the ones fatally attractive to
moths on the wing.
"Pabst Blue Ribbon signs were
the best," McFarland says. "Re­member
that sign? The bluish one?
That's at the blue-purple end of
the spectrum, and it really gets
'em. All the moth people knew
where the Pabst Blue Ribbon signs
were, and at night they'd lurk
around them catching moths."
N ow, almost 50 years later,
McFarland sits at a desk in his
study-bunkhouse-hideout in a
canyon in the Huachuca Moun­tain
foothills. To say he's still a
MOTHS AND
"moth person" understates his
zeal. Moths are his everlasting
passion. He's here because south­eastern
Arizona's cool, wet can­yons
rank with the world's best
places to find moths - or birds,
or reptiles, or butterflies, or even
wild orchids.
A borderline moth ignoramus
myself, I sought out McFarland
for answers to some idle questions
I had pondered at one time or
another. What's the difference
between a moth and a butterfly?
Why do moths fly into flames and
hot light bulbs, a practice that
usually ends in slow incineration?
Where do they go in daytime?
FATAL ATTRACTIONS
A P 0 RTF 0 L o BY MAR T yeO R 0 A NO
T EXT BY TOM DOL LA R
E U M 0 R P H A T Y P H 0 N
(LEFT) Some of the moths that appear in daylight,
such as this Eumorpha typhon, camouflage themselves expertly
as leaf litter, lichens, bark, and even flower petals.
_j
Arizona Highways 23
SPHINX MOTHS AND fATAL ATTRACTIONS
McFarland hands me a well­thumbed
copy of Arizona Highways.
The logo is old-fashioned, the pa­per
pulpy. On the cover, a grainy
color photo is identified as Hamp­ton's
painted tiger-moth. April,
1951, is the date; price, 35 cents.
"Lloyd Martin, who wrote that
cover story, was my mentor,"
McFarland explains. "He was cu­rator
of entomology at the Los
Angeles Museum of Natural His­tory,
and he gave up his Saturdays
to work with kid collectors. I was
one of those kids."
Though we tend to think of
moths as drab nighttime cousins
of butterflies, the relationship is
really the other way around. The
order Lepidoptera, which includes
both, is composed mostly of
moths. Thus for every species of
butterfly found in southeastern
Arizona, there may be up to 15
species of moths.
The differences? By and large, if
it looks like a butterfly, and it's fly­ing
in full daylight, it is a butterfly;
after dark, it's a moth. There are
exceptions. Some sphinx moths,
for example, often flit from blos­som
to blossom in full daylight or
at dusk; larger ones are sometimes
mistaken for hummingbirds, so
rapid are their wing beats.
Other differences: butterflies'
antennae are clubbed at the end;
moths' antennae are either thread­like
or feathery. Most butterflies
are quite colorful, moths drab;
but some moths, tiger moths no­tably,
are as brightly colored as
any butterfly. Butterflies, gener­ally,
are slender, moths thick­bodied;
but here again, certain
moths are quite streamlined.
Geometrid moths, named for the
looping "land measuring" mo­tion
of their inch-worm larvae,
are skinny fast fliers.
MAN Due, A FLO RES TAN
(RIGHT) The Manduca jlorestan, or sphinx moth, is fond of daylight.
But a predator would have difficulty spotting this one, which has taken
on the appearance of the granite rock on which it rests.
L
24 September 1996
_j
SPHINX MOTHS AND FATAL ATTRACTIONS
The best way to observe moths
is to install a black light (a long­wave
ultraviolet light) against a
light-colored backdrop. On dark
nights, moths will home in on the
light almost immediately. "Home
in" is misleading; actually moths
are trapped by light.
We've long known that moths
are powerfully drawn to light,·es­pecially
the ultraviolet band. One
widely accepted theory holds that
moths navigate by fixing upon
dim sources of natural light and
are disoriented by bright artificial
light. Spiraling ever closer to its
source, they become hopelessly
lost. Turn out the light, and you
set them free.
Collecting moths by black-light­ing
is a cinch, but to learn some­thing
about their life histories -
where they lay eggs, what they eat
as larvae, how long they live as
pupae - a good moth collector
must find them by day, no easy
task. Moths, you see, survive in
daylight by pretending to be some­thing
else: a leaf, sand, ground lit­ter,
or even charred wood.
Without this ability to conceal
themselves, most moths would
be quickly seen and snapped up
by birds. If aforaging bird en­counters
a white spatter that re­sembles
its own fecal droppings,
however, its bird brain simply
doesn't register that the spatter
could be fake. Of course if the
droppings should move, the bird
spots the deception and quickly
gobbles up the moth.
Other moths camouflage them­selves
as lichens, bark, dead leaves,
or flower petals. lichen-mimick­ing
moths need not necessarily
come to rest on lichen-encrusted
rocks. Any surface on which
lichens are apt to grow is good
Text continued on page 30
M I RAe A VIR A B R ILL I A N S
(LEFT) Employing its expertise in disguise, a Miracavira brillians is almost
indistinguishable from the lichen on a rock. To fool predators, the moth
needn't find a patch of lichen, only a surface on which it might be found.
L _j
Arizona Highways 27
SPHINX MOTHS AND FATAL ATTRACTIONS
MEL I POT ISS P
A piece oj petrified wood provides a saJe haven
Jor a Melipotis SF This is one oj many species oj Melipotis
Jound in the Southwest. They are closely related
to the more colorful underwing moths.
SPHINX MOTHS AND FATAL ATTRACTIONS
Continued from page 27
enough to trick most predators.
Not all moths use cryptic col­oring
to fake out predators. Tiger
moths, for example, though often
brilliantly colored, are avoided
by birds. The reason? They either
taste bad or are poisonous.
Some of the larger silk moths
have eyespots on their wings that
scare off smaller birds. Big birds
aren't much fooled, though. Jays
and thrashers will wolf down
moths size, owl eyes and all.
there are moths with
colored underwings.
At rest on a tree trunk, one of
these moths folds and covers its
underwings, becoming one with
the bark. But if frightened by the
snap of a twig or a bird landing
nearby, it flashes those under­wings
and flies off, flaunting its
colors. As it alights on a nearby
tree trunk it folds its sparkling
wings, becoming instantly invis­ible.
By the time the astonished
bird recovers, it's too late. The
moth has become bark again.
As I prepare to leave, McFarland
turns again to the cover photo of
that tattered 1951 issue of Arizona
Highways. "See that mouse-gray
and rosy-pink triangle?" he says,
pointing to the tiger moth photo.
"It resembles a pattern woven
into a lot of older Navajo rugs
that my father used to collect.
That moth occurs throughout the
Four Corners area; it's one that
every Navajo would have seen."
He looks up. I return his smile.
We like it, the idea of a Navajo
weaver copying a moth design.
Art imitating Nature. H
Marty Cordano lives in Bisbee and is a
former wildlife biologist for the Bureau of
Land Management.
Inspired by his visit with Noel McFarland,
Tucson-based Tom Dollar recently bought a
I5-watt black light.
1ST A R
(RIGHT) The common sphinx moth is readily seen
in southeastern Arizona. It flies mid-June to mid-September,
peaking during the July-August monsoons.
L
30 September 1996
_j
N A v A J o c u l T u R E
STORIES GRANDMOTHER TOLD
Severaltimes out in Navajo country,
people had told me fragments of
traditional tales, the sort you read
in books, about Coyote, Monster Slayer,
and Changing Woman. But I'd never at­tended
a family storytelling session, that
quiet time when a Navajo grandmother sits
in her hogan and passes on cultural lore to
her grandchildren.
Then one morning the telephone rang. It
was a Navajo acquaintance inviting me to
a storytelling session with his aunt, a med­icine
woman in her 70s.
''I'd love to come," I said. "What kind of
stories do you think she'll tell7"
He hesitated. It was the sort of pause
that, I've learned, means I'm seeing some­thing
one way, and the Navajo I'm talking
to is seeing it another.
"My aunt said it's okay for you to be
there," he answered. "But I just want you to
know, I'm really glad it's not wintertime
anymore."
It was early February, but by the
Navajo calendar, spring had already
arrived. That happened when thun­der
awakened from its winter sleep
and rolled across the sky
"Winterstories are too sacred," he
continued. "People write about
Coyote, Monster Slayer, and all the
others. But it's not good. It takes
something from the Navajos."
I assured him I didn't want to do
that, and he said he'd call when his
aunt was ready
A week went by Then two. Then three.
I called him.
"Not yet," he said. "Soon."
Finally one morning in April, I headed
north on u.S. 191 through the heart of
Navajo country The highway rose and fell
with the juniper-covered hills. It dropped
into a broad plain, passed rust-colored clay
erosions and hidden canyons, then wound
north through red sandstone. A stark black
mesa appeared in the west, disappeared
behind hills, reappeared.
South of Round Rock, an unmarked road
made a steep tum down from the highway
I crept along the hardpan until the track
twisted upward and arrived at a cluster of
buildings. An eight-sided plywood hogan,
an outhouse, aramada, and a pen for sheep
and goats surrounded a small frame house
which had no electricity or running water.
The animals bleated. Invisible behind the
pen's high wooden walls, they marked the
wind with a thick odor.
A girl who looked about 14 but turned
out to be 11 was showing her sister,
three, how to use a plastic sling­shot.
Other children played catch
and climbed a horse trailer as if it
were a jungle gym.
"Time for storytelling," their fa­ther,
and the man who had invited
me there, called out. They disap­peared
into the hogan.
He pointed westward toward
the mesa I'd glimpsed from the
highway Columns of falling snow
TEXT BY SUSAN HAZEN-HAMMOND
PHOTOGRAPHS BY MONTY ROESSEL
connected the Earth to the sky. "That's the
sacred Black Mesa. It's a female mountain.
And that"- a red and black mountain to
the east - "is the sacred Lukachukai. It's
male. On the other side, they call it the
Chuskas."
"What makes them male and female?" I
asked.
He hesitated. "They're alive, just like us."
His aunt was busy, he said. His mother
would tell the stories.
Inside the hogan, the only light came
from a translucent window in the door and
the smoke hole, an open space about two
feet square at the center of the ceiling. Near
the walls, sheepskins lay across the sand
floor, leaving an inner circle of sand. A row
of 10 corncobs strung together with string
like a miniature ladder hung near a bag of
loose cobs on the unplaned boards by the
door. Sheets covered other walls, slowing
the migration of sand. The children sat
quietly near the door with their mother.
The storyteller, a woman with graying
hair and dark, solemn eyes, looked up but
did not rise. A medicine woman herself,
she had spent the past week presiding over
a healing ceremony in this hogan.
Since my last visit to the reservation, I had
learned more about Navajo etiquette. An
outsider, coming in, owes a gift, something
practical, not fancy. I'd selected a smoked
ham that didn't need refrigeration. I hand­ed
it to her.
She patted the ham in acknowledge­ment,
then turned to her son. "Go see your
mother. She's shearing sheep."
"Isn't this your mother?" l whispered,
confused.
"That's how we talk in Navajo. My
mother's sisters are my mothers, too." He
said something in Navajo, and his mother
laughed.
When he returned, his mother, now in
the role of the storyteller, moved to the
hogan's place of honor, the wall opposite
the door. The children came forward and
sprawled on sheepskins in front of her. I
settled a little way back, on the bare floor
besfde the stove.
The storyteller's son lifted the corn lad­der
and the sack of cobs from the wall and
took them to her.
"Navajo stories don't have a beginning,
a middle, and an end," he whispered to me.
"They're a circle, like a hogan, Like the Earth,
with a lot of different things inside."
The storyteller adjusted her dark cotton
34 September 1996
skirt around her. Another skirt, worn for
warmth, peeked out beneath it.
She motioned toward the sheepskins,
and her turquoise and silver bracelets
glowed against her purple velveteen blouse.
"That's where we slept last night, my sister
and me," she told the children. She spoke
in a musical voice that turned English into
a tonal language like Navajo. Her glottal
stops added a staccato beat. "lt used to be,
when I was growing up, we lived in hogans
'Respect the corn.
You can't just
pick the
perfect one.
You have to pick
'
ever~ p1ece .
You have to
pick even the
smallest piece.
Even the ugliest.'
all the time. just one room, like this, with
a dirt floor. No water No electricity. Every­one
sleeping in the same room. Everybody
talking Navajo."
One child still held a baseball mitt, an­other
a baseball, a third a soft drink, but
their faces had turned earnest with atten­tion
and expectation.
'This morning a Navajo woman from
Scottsdale came to me in this hogan. She is
from Black Mesa, the most traditional place
of all, but her mother, her grandmother,
they didn't teach her right. She said, 'I'm
having trouble with my job. 1 want you to
pray for me. But I don't know anything
about Navajo ways.' "
The storyteller looked each child in the
eye. "That's why you have to know your
culture. You have to say, 'NaiL [Grand­mother],
tell me the story about corn. Nali,
tell me the story about mountains. Nali, tell
me the story about rocks.' These are pow­erful
things. These are to protect you."
The wind rattled the top of the stovepipe
against the guy wires that held it in place in
the center of the smoke hole.
The storyteller continued, "It's spring­time.
So today we're going to have a story
about the corn, like the stories my mother
told when I was a little girl. Okay?"
The children looked at her.
"Say Aoo'," their father prodded.
"Aoo'. Aoo'. Aoo'. Aoo'. Aoo'." Five soft
voices said "yes" in Navajo.
"What does April mean in Navajo?" their
grandmother asked.
"Spring," said one of the youngsters.
"Daan-ch'il," she replied. She held her
hands up, palms together, then opened them,
palms outward. "When something opens
like this, we call it Daan-ch'il. That's what
spring is, the time when the plants open."
The children repeated the Navajo word.
Then she said, "There are plants outside.
Haza'aleeh, like parsley. And there are other
plants called wild onions. You take the coat
off. There's another coat inside. You take
that coat off, there's another coat inside.
Navajos tease each other. They say, 'Don't
be like onions, wearing too many coats.' "
The storyteller led the children outside.
Near the blue water barrel beside the ho­gan,
she stooped and pulled a flat, lacy
plant from the sand. Her skirts grazed the
Earth. "Haza'aleeh," she said. "Who plants
it? We don't. Mother Nature does. The first
plants you see in the springtime, you bless
yourself with them. How many Navajos do
that today?"
The children followed her back into the
hogan. 'This is our own Navajo food, native
food," she said, holding the haza'aleeh out
for them to see. "My sister and l were gath­ering
some the other day. We put it in the
ashes. Then we dry it. Then we go like this."
Her fingers made a crumbling motion.
"Then we roast the corn and grind it
with a grinding stone, and then we cook
the cornmeal with haza'aleeh in it. Then we
serve it to kids."
The children watched their grandmother
as intently as if she were an adventure movie.
Only the three year old looked around.
The storyteller picked up the ladder of
corn. "What makes a Navajo woman to be
proud and happy is to see her corn grow­ing,"
she said . "My sister can't live without
her cornfield. Today nobody talks about
this kind of stuff to young kids like you.
You got to understand these things. These
plants. Why we have cornfield. Why plants
grow. What Mother Nature has for you."
She stopped for a moment, then said
forcefully, "You are plants. You are nanise',
meaning something grow. You grow. You're
just like those plants."
Robin, the three year
old, picked up handfuls
of sand and tossed them
into the air. The others ig­nored
her.
"This is what your great­great
cheii [grandfather]
and your great-great mili
do," the storyteller con­tinued.
"They fix the field.
Your great-great cheii plant­ed
the com, four seeds at a
time, and your great-great
nali walked behind him
and patted the corn in
place with her feet."
She closed her eyes. "It
takes all day. You get thirsty.
Keep on. Keep on going.
Keep on going. Can't stop
to eat or drink until the
field is all p lamed."
away. Corns have feelings just like you."
The storyteller paused. Her son knelt
beside the homemade barrel stove and
shoved in another stick of wood. The fra­grance
of burning cedar filled the hogan.
Softly the storyteller began, "Once upon
a time, this man picked a perfect ear of
com. The others in the field weren't so per­fect.
He said, This one is no good. That
one is no good.' So he left all the others.
But as he left, he heard someone crying."
her Kinaalda, a ceremony honoring her
transition to womanhood.
"The plants talk to you, but you don't
know it," she said. "The plants won't say
Jaclyn.' They won't say 'Robin.' They use
your spirit name, your real name. Will say,
'There's so and so walking.' When you
grow up and think you're alone, you're not
alone. The plants say, 'There goes my
grandson. There goes my kids.'
"That's why your nali always has corn
around. That's why you
don't ever pass corn. You
pick it. You eat it. You put
it on yourself. You take it
home and plant it. The
corn is Holy People."
She folded her hands.
"Okay, you understand?"
Five soft voices said,
"Whatever little I told
you right here gets into
your spirit, gets into your
thoughts. You are all plants.
You are all growing."
She stopped talking,
and the children left.
She looked at the chil­dren.
"I think that's what
my mom used to say. l
don't remember."
(PRECEDING PANEL, PAGE 33) Gathered for a time of traditional storytelling,
Marie jim soothes her granddaughter, Harrisatta Sandoval,
For the first time, the
storyteller looked my way.
"Everybody says, 'Oh, that's
just mythology,' " she said.
"But it is not mythology.
These stories come from
the Holy People. They're
sacred."
I nodded. "Is it all right
to write the names of the
Holy People?"
who has tangled with a sharp yucca.
She formed her hands
into a square. "The Navajo
people plant two kinds of
(ABOVE) Siblings Tiffany, Heath, and Harrisatta listen
to one of their grandmother's stories.
cornfields. One is square
kind. That's male. One is round kind.
That's female. You are male and female.
White corn, that's boys and men. Yellow
corn, that's female."
Holding up the cobs, she taught the chil­dren
the Navajo words for white com, yel­low
corn, blue corn, and red corn.
"This red corn, this naadd.'alchii, is very
important. You always have to plant four
kernels of naada'alchii in each field. It
brings the rain to the cornfield. That's the
way l was taught."
The storyteller ran her hand gently
along a colored cob of corn. "Corn is the
Holy People. That's why you don't laugh
at corn. That's why you don't throw com
I leaned forward. This was the son of an­cient
tale I'd been hoping for.
"The man returned to the field and found
that the corns were sitting there crying. 'No
one wants us. We're ugly,' they said.
"So the man picked one. Then another.
He talked to them. He picked them all,
every one.
'That's how the Holy People said to the
Navajo, 'Respect the corn.' You can't just
pick the perfect one. You have to pick every
piece. You have to pick even the smallest
piece. Even the ugliest. lt was the Holy
People who told them to pick all the corn."
The storyteller smiled at her oldest grand­child,
jaclyn, 11, who had just celebrated
She shook her head.
"No.,
"So the story came from
the Holy People, but the corn is the Holy
People, too?"
She nodded. "All the plants are Holy
People."
The storyteller's son hung the ladder of
corn on the wall. The storyteller dozed on
the sheepskins. A few grains of reddish
sand rained in through the smoke hole. The
children played outside the hogan's door.
The storyteller stood up. It was time
for me to go. ~
Santa Fe, New Mexico-based Susan Hazen-Hammond
is the author of four books and numerous articles about
the Soulhwesl
Monty Roessel also conuibuted tlte photographs for the
s!O'Y in this issue about jeep !Owing at Canyon de Chelly.
Arizona Highways 35
THIS ROUNDUP
WAS RE.ALLY
FOR THE BIRDS -
OR HOW CATTLEMAN
HENRY C. HOOKER
LEARNED
•
N THE WILD WEST OF THE 1860S, TURKEYS WERE COMMONLY SHOT, STUFFED, AND
roasted around holiday time. But it took an
Arizona legend like Henry C. Hooker to
herd them like cattle and march them over
a mountain range.
It all started in the California goldfields
in 1866, before Hooker started his widely
known Sierra Bonita Ranch in Arizona. At
34 years of age, Hooker felt pleased with
his life. He'd been prospecting for almost
13 years and had gotten over his strike-it­rich
dream. He'd married, fathered three
children, and was slowly making- his for­tune
the smart way: selling mining equip-ment
to gold-struck fools. He would have
settled permanently in the goldfields of
Hangtown except a fire destroyed his house,
his store, and his entire stock of goods.
In one day his fortune was gone.
Lesser men would have picked up a
gold pan and gone back to dreaming. But
not Hooker. He knew another fortune
could be made.
TEXT BY JANET TRONSTAD
ILLUSTRATION BY
H.OWARD POST
36 September 1996
That was when he thought of turkeys.
Hooker knew miners would pay an ex­orbitant
amount of money for anything
edible, and although prices were high in
California, they were even higher in the
new mining town of Carson City, Nevada.
Surely the miners in Carson City would
welcome the smell of roasting turkeys.
Once Hooker made up his mind, he got
busy. He borrowed some money and, at
$1.50 per bird, bought 500 plump turkeys
from nearby ranchers. He then bought sev­eral
sheepdogs to help herd the turkeys.
When word of Hooker's scheme got
around Hangtown, the miners laughed.
They said the fire had driven Hooker plumb
crazy. What kind of fool would try to drive
a herd of turkeys over the high Sierras?
Only a fool like Hooker.
When he started out, Hooker didn't
know much about turkeys. By the time
he'd reached the base of the Sierras, he was
beginning to learn.
As he would have told you, turkeys aren't
known for their brains. Even Benjamin
Franklin, who championed the birds, had
to admit they "were a little vain and silly."
Others were less kind, pointing out that
turkeys had been known to stand in a pour­ing
rain, looking up at the sky with their
mouths open - apparently fascinated -
for such a long time that they drowned.
And that other turkeys, if they came upon
the dead body of a fellow bird, might fluster
themselves into such a panic they would die
of fright right then and there.
Needless to say, turkeys weren't the best
traveling companions. They spooked easily
and had little survival sense. Still, Hooker
pressed on. His turkeys learned to wake
with the dawn and grab an insect or two on
the march.
By the time Hooker reached the farside
of the Sierras, he felt satisfied with himself.
Complacent, even. Perhaps that's why he
didn't scout ahead and see that the dogs
were herding the turkeys straight toward
a steep cliff. Sheep, with a little dog en­couragement,
would have had no problem
climbing down the cliff. But not turkeys.
Hooker frantically called his dogs back. It
was too late. The dogs worried the turkeys
right off the cliff.
There go my turkeys, Hooker thought,
knowing a fall from the cliff would surely
kill the silly birds.
But looking over the cliff edge, he saw
his flock alive and well at the bottom. The
ruffled turkeys weren't hurt, but they were
certainly surprised - almost as surprised
as he was. It was probably the only time
these farm-fat birds had ever spread their
wings. They hadn't even known they could
fly until they were forced off that cliff.
It was a proud Hooker who drove his
herd of turkeys into Carson City. The min­ers
were overjoyed to see such an abun­dance
of Thanksgiving meat and happily
paid $5 apiece for the birds.
Hooker cleared more than $1,500, enough
money to give him and his family a new
start. Instead of rebuilding in California, he
moved his family to Arizona.
Hooker never forgot his experiences
with the turkeys, but he never again
drove a flock of them over a mountain
range like he did in 1866. Instead he
turned his attention to purebred horses
and prize herds of Hereford, Durham,
and shorthorn cattle. Hooker's Arizona
ranch, the Sierra Bonita, was a popular
stopover guests of all descriptions. Of
course, when his company sat down at
the table, it was usually beef, not turkey,
that was on their plates. H
During her childhood, Pasadena, California-based
Janet Tronstad got acquainted with turkeys on her
grandmother's farm, so she had a lot of sympathy for
Henry Hooker.
Howard Post lives in Mesa, but he grew up on a ranch
outside Tucson, where they raised horses and cattle but
not turkeys.
Arizona Highways 37
SAN PEDRO AND SOUTHWESTERN RAILROAD
ohn Rose and I stood in
the bar car of the San
Pedro and Southwestern
Railroad's excursion train
as it rolled through the
high desert between the
Whetstone and Dragoon
mountains. Weekdays Rose
is a real estate developer in
Sierra Vista; weekends he puts
on a striped railroader's cap and becomes
the train's "talk boy," a raconteur who brings
the landscape to life with an animated nar­rative
on the history and lore of southeast­ern
Arizona.
For Rose the 27-mile journey from Ben­son
to Charleston, an unpopulated spot
near Tombstone, unfolds like a movie reel.
As the nine-car train rolls through the land­scape,
he sees not only mesquite bushes
and cottonwoods and adobe ruins but also
a cast of characters who walked through
the San Pedro Valley and into the pages of
legend and history
"To understand the American identity,"
Rose said with enthusiasm, "you have to
come to the West; and to understand the
West, you have to come to this valley" As
we passed the west side of the Dragoon
Mountains, a natural stronghold where war­ring
Apaches once took refuge, he added:
"If you were to go anywhere on Earth
and the people knew the name of only one
Native American, it would be Geronimo;
and if they the name of one Old West
lawman, it be Wyatt Earp. If they
knew one it would be the 30-sec-ond
O.K. If they knew of
only one West gambler, it would be
Doc Holliday, the dentist killer. If
they knew the name of one Old West town,
it would be Tombstone."
The excursion train, which started up in
the spring of 1994, makes a smooth four­hour
jaunt through the countryside that for
several years was the stomping ground of
many of the West's most famous good and
bad guys, and Rose talks about them as
though they were all personal acquaintances.
Minutes after leaving the railroad's small
depot and gift shop at Benson, Rose pointed
out the Whetstone Mountains to the west,
and suddenly the reel was rolling again.
In those mountains, he told some 200
passengers over the public address system,
Wyatt Earp killed the notorious bandit Curly
Bill Brocius. The execution of Brocius, he
said, was Earp's way of avenging the assas­sination
of his brother Morgan Earp, who
had been shot in the back while playing
pool at Robert Hatch's saloon and billiard
parlor in Tombstone. That wasn't what
Wyatt contended, however. He said Curly
40 September 1996
Bill was a stagecoach robber, and he had a
warrant for his arrest. And when he found
him, the outlaw and his companions
opened fire. There are at least four versions
of what happened in that gunfight some­where
between the Whetstone and Mustang
mountains, and, 100 years after the fact,
Rose's version is as good as anyone else's.
Some 20 miles south of the place where
the gunfight reportedly occurred, we ap­proached
Charleston, once a town far
more dangerous than Tombstone, and Rose
brought his Earp-Brocius story full circle.
After Curly Bill was killed, he said, his body
was taken to Charleston and buried in a se­cret
grave, which has never been found.
No one knows for sure where Curly Bill
ended up, but if it was at Charleston, at
least his final resting place is scenic. In fall
the giant cottonwood trees at that bend in
the river blaze yellow and orange. The spot
is so special that in 1986 it was set aside
as part of a National Riparian Conservation
Area, a giant Nature preserve that extends
along the river from the vicinity of St. David
to the Mexican border.
A couple of years ago, The Nature Con­servancy,
a private conservation organiza­tion,
designated the San Pedro River area as
one of the "Last Great Places" in the West­ern
Hemisphere. (See Arizona Highways,
May '96.) It's an area rich in wildlife, and
throughout our afternoon journey Rose ad­vised
passengers to watch for mule and
white-tailed deer and javelinas in the brush
along the tracks. The javelina "looks like a
pig on steroids," Rose said in one of his
thumbnail summaries.
The San Pedro and Southwestern runs
parallel to the river the full distance from
Benson to Charleston, though the stream
sometimes hides behind hills and dense
vegetation.
Like the Santa Cruz River that passes
(PRECEDING PANEL, PAGES 38 AND 39) Scenery and
frontier history lure passengers aboard the train for the
54-mile round-trip excursion along the San Pedro River
between Benson and Charleston.
(TOP) Towering cottonwoods turned golden in early
autumn make "The Narrows" a visual highlight of the day.
(ABOVE) Real estate development occupies john Rose
weekdays, but on weekends, he's the trip's lively narrator.
(RIGHT)just before The Narrows, the train approaches
a river crossing obscured by vegetation.
Arizona Highways 41
42 September 1996
(TOP) Passengers like to visit one of the
trains covered cars with open sides for a
closer look at the countryside.
(LEFT) It's said that quick justice at the end
of a rope dangling from this 1 00-year-old
cottonwood between Benson and Fairbank,
its limbs arching over the tracks, ended the
careers of some frontier desperados.
(ABOVE) An old building at the ghost town
of Fairbank was once a store owned by
joe Goldwater, the great-uncle of former
U.S. Sen. Barry Goldwater.
SAN PEDRO AND SOUTHWES TE RN RA I LROAD
through Tucson, the San Pedro enters Ari­zona
from Mexico and flows from south to
north. In a way, it is an upside-down river
because it drops about 2,500 feet from the
point in the south where it enters Arizona to
the point in the north, near Winkelman,
where it joins the Gila River. long ago the
river developed a r.eputation that sets it
apart, based on the belief that even when it
is reduced to a mere trickle, just prior to the
summer rainy season, the San Pedro still
manages to sustain one of the richest wild­life
populations in the United States.
This rare river in the desert supports
between 250 and 2 75 species of birds,
80 species of mammals, and 30 to 40 spe­cies
of herptiles (reptiles and amphibians).
Among the birds are great horned owls,
Harris' hawks, vermilion flycatchers, blue
grosbeaks, summer tanagers, warblers,
thrashers - and gray hawks, which is why
the railroad named its diesel locomotive
Gray Hawk.
The terrain through which the train pass­es
also holds a treasure trove of fossils from
the end of the last Ice Age, some 40,000
years ago. Archaeologists working in the
San Pedro Basin have uncovered numerous
bones of long-extinct mammoths, giant ele­phants
that prehistoric men hunted with
spears. One of the most famous mammoth
kill sites in North America is located at
Hereford. (See Arizona Highways, Nov. '92.),
roughly 20 miles southeast of Charleston.
We rolled through this countryside at a
comfortable speed until we reached the
turnaround point at Charleston, some 10
miles southwest of Tombstone. There the
engine was uncoupled and reconnected at
the rear end for the return journey.
As we waited for the engine to rejoin the
train, I looked toward the old bridge that
spans the river west of the tracks and won­dered
what it would be like there after sun­down.
Total darkness, I decided, as there
are few inhabitants hereabouts. ln fact, the
only permanent "inhabitant" was one I'd
heard about nearly 20 years ago.
I was in Sierra Vista and knew I'd be
headed to Tombstone that night along the
Charleston Road, a lonely rural rome that
forms a diagonal line connecting the two
towns. I mentioned this to a friend who
lives in Sierra Vista.
'Td be careful of that road," he said.
"Yes, it's kind of twisty here and there,"
1 agreed. I'd driven it many times.
"That's true," he said, "but that's not
what you have to be careful of. You gotta
watch out for the three-headed horse."
I checked his eyes and decided he was
sober. "The three-headed horse?" I repeat­ed.
He offered the following:
"Many years ago, three men on horses
crossed the Charleston Road near thenar­row
bridge over the San Pedro River. A
truck came barreling along and hit them,
killing all three.
"Now whenever there is a full moon, a
horse with three heads appears on the
bridge. The horse, which has one red eye,
one blue eye, and one yellow eye, shines a
light into your car to see if you are the truck
driver who killed the three horsemen."
I didn't believe the story, of course, but
I nearly jumped out of my skin when a
blast from the train's whistle brought me
out of my reverie. We were continuing our
journey, heading north back to Benson.
However, about eight miles above Charles­ton
we stopped again, this time for an en­tertaining
45 minutes at Fairbank, a ghost
town that was an important junction when
the line connected Benson with Mexico. A
branch line extended from Fairbank to the
mines at Tombstone, where N.K Fairbank,
owner of the Grand Central Mining Co.,
resided. In a mesquite grove surrounded by
the ramshackle remains of Fairbank, we en­joyed
a cowboy lunch (it cost $7) prepared
by the nearby Ironhorse guest ranch.
We also had a chance to see "Bullwhip
Smith" in action. Bullwhip is actually jerome
Smith, an actor who worked Renaissance
fairs for many years before he and his wife,
Terry, became regular performers living and
working at the Ironhorse.
In the melodrama they put on during my
trip, Terry played the part of Bullwhip's sis­ter,
a young lady who was very pregnant,
and another thespian, Bobby Stevens, played
the role of the sheriff. Bullwhip was deter­mined
to find the miscreant who had put
his sister in a family way and then vanished.
Sister eventually sniffed the lowlife out - an
unsuspecting passenger, whose wife did not
seem particularly surprised by the allegation.
WHEN YOU GO
Before and after the skit, the Ironhorse
Westernaires serenaded us with old-time
cowboy songs.
Following this relaxing interlude, the
train started again for Benson, slowly pass­ing
the remains of the Presidio of Santa
Cruz de TeiTenate, one of the most remark­able
historic sites in southern Arizona. The
presidio reminds us the Spanish were the
first Europeans to settle the land along this
train route. later, in 1821, it became part
of Mexico after the country gained its inde­pendence
from Spain. When the Spaniards
controlled southern Arizona, known then
as Pimeria Alta, they established three
presidios, or forts, including the one at
Terrenate. Its ruins, more than 200 years
old, lie exposed on a hillside adjacent to
the railroad tracks.
Gradually the train meandered to the
northern border of the San Pedro Ripar­ian
National Conservation Area. A few
miles before we returned to the tiny depot
at Benson, Rose concluded his mono­logue
on history, the vegetation, the rea­sons
for washes, and the absorption rates
of desert soils, and started singing over
the P.A. system.
This ride through the high desert makes
a relaxing diversion, and Rose is clear­ly
one of the more popular ingredients.
Toward the end of the journey; passengers
received a questionnaire asking what they
liked or didn't like about the experience.
'Tve been astounded at the positive re­sponse,"
said Rose, whose popularity with
the passengers ranks just a notch below
that of Wyatt Earp. ~
Sam Negri, also wrote the story in this issue about opal
mining.
Phoenix-based Errol Zimmerman had photographed
many train excursions in Europe and japan, but this story
provided his first opportunity to take pictures on an
A1izona tourist train excursion.
T he four-hour 27-mile ride operates Thursday-Sunday, departing Benson at 11 A.M.
.1 Enclosed cars are heated and air-conditioned. If you're going to sit in an outside car
in cooler months, bring a blanket. Passengers also can bring lunch if they prefer not to
buy the barbecue meal at Fairbank. Snacks and beverages can be purchased on board.
Benson is three hours southeast of Phoenix via Interstate 10, or 50 minutes east of
Tucson. Rates and reservations: (520) 586-2266, or write the
railroad, P.O. Box 1420, Benson, AZ 85602.
Other Train Excursions:
Grand Canyon Railway offers day trips from Williams to
the Canyon. Packages that include guided ground tours and
overnight lodging at the Canyon also are available.
Information: toll-free (800) THE TRAIN.
Verde Canyon Railroad offers four-hour, 40-mile excursions
through the Verde Valley. Overnight in Sedona packages are
available. Information: toll-free (800) 293-7245.
I Grdnd Canyon A~ational Park
WI.Ll iAMS
' Vadt
PHOENIX Valley
* TUCSON
• BENSON
Fairbank"·. •T-OMBSTONE Oiarle51on
Arizona Highways 43
WIT S TOP
•..................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................•
TEXT BY GENE PERRET
ILLUSTRATION BY ROBERTA HANCOCK
A Riverboat
Gambler?
In Your Dreams
A Mississippi-style paddle ..nwheeler called the Colo­rado
King I runs excursions
along the Colorado River from
September through May. The
trip begins at Fisher's Landing
on Martinez Lake and goes to
Imperial Dam and back. And,
of course, somewhere on the
boat there's a gift shop.
My wife said, "Let's go to the
gift shop."
I said, "No, you go on. I'll
just relax here on the deck chair
and watch the river go by."
I fell asleep on that chair
and dreamed of the days when
riverboat gamblers rode paddle
wheelers and played high
stakes poker.
In my dream, I spotted a
table with an empty chair and
knew immediately that three
poker players occupied the
other chairs because they
looked like poker players;
they acted like poker players;
they smelled like poker play­ers.
The poker game they were
playing helped a bit, too.
One was a bowler-hatted
dude. One was a filthy mess
with scraggly hair on his head,
his chin, and under his nose.
His face looked like it need­ed
a gardener. One looked like
Clark Gable in Gone With the
Wind. When I said, "Do you
mind if I sit in?" I expected
him to say, "Frankly, my dear,
I don't give a damn."
Instead he asked, "Do you
play poker, stranger?"
I laughed. None of them did.
"Do I play poker?" I laughed
again. None of them did again.
I sat down.
"Do I play poker?" I repeated.
44 September 1996
"My wife and I play poker three
Saturdays a month with two
other couples. On the fourth
Saturday, we play Pictionary,
which I actually play better
than I do poker. I don't sup­pose
any of you would be in­terested
in playing Pictionary?"
None of them answered.
Pigpen just spat a stream of to­bacco
juice toward the cuspidor
on the floor by his feet and, un­by
my feet also. Ten
percent went into the cus­pidor,
90' percent went over
the toes of my previously white
Nike walking shoes. He either
had bad aim or very good aim.
Clark Gable shoved stacks of
poker chips my way and start­ed
dealing.
1 said, "My cards are sticky."
Pigpen said, "Baloney."
The "Ba" in "Baloney" sprayed
a tobacco juice pattern all over
my pink Izod .shirt. I under­stood
why the cards were sticky
I lost with a pair of eights
and a pair of twos to Bowler
Hat who had three fours. I said,
"We generally make twos wild,
so I would have beaten your
three of a kind with my four of
a kind."
He pushed back his coat and
began rubbing the sidearm
which I just noticed he wore.
In our friendly game with the
other couples we don't per­mit
any weapons, except of
course for the knife to spread
the cheese dip on the crackers
that we always serve during the
game. These gentlemen didn't
serve crackers and cheese.
The next hand, I had an
eight-high straight. Not bad,
but the other guys seemed to
be happy with their hands, too.
When the bet came around to
me, I said, "Forfulflushstray."
Clark Gable said, "Excuse
me?"
I said, "Oh, I was just talking
to myself. In order to know
what beats what I say 'for­fulflushstray.'
That reminds
me that four of a kind beats a
full house which beats a flush
which beats a straight. Then
there's three of a kind, two
pair, and ....
"
Bowler Hat slammed his gun
on the table. Pigpen shouted,
"Baloney!"
It didn't bother me. It was
an old shirt. I was about to get
rid of it anyway.
I lost to a flush.
Now it was my deal. I said,
"I know a fun game. Let's play
Peekie Peekie Boo Boo."
They all shouted "What?"
like a trio of well-rehearsed
back-up singers.
I said, "It's easy. You'll learn
it very fast. Now red threes,
fives, and nines are wild. Black
fours and face cards are wild,
too. If the first card you get is a
seven, then it reverses all the
wild cards. You see, red fours
and face cards are wild . . . ."
Pigpen grabbed me by the
throat and Bowler Hat stuck
his weapon up against my
nose. Clark Gable scraped all
my chips into his plantation
hat. Apparently I was out of the
game and gone bust.
Digpen kept shaking me and
rshaking me ... until I woke
up. It wasn't Pigpen at all who
was shaking me; it was my wife.
"Wake up, honey. Wake up."
What a relief. I was in the
present day, riding the Colorado
King I toward Imperial Dam. It
had all been a fantasy. I hadn't
lost a fortune at all.
My wife said, "Let me show
you all the things I got in the
gift shop."
She showed me. I had lost
a fortune. 􁪽􋴀
LEGENDS o F THE Los T
•..................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................•
TEXT BY
ILLUSTRATIONS
WilliaIll B. Rood
and the Treasure
of Rancho
de Los Yumas
ounces from placer deposits
there, including nuggets weigh­ing
upward of four pounds.
Gold mayor may not have
been the reason that a man
named William B. Rood sold
his ranch south of Tucson in
1862 and then established a
large cattle operation just south
of La Paz along the eastern
bank of the Colorado River.
When Rood drowned in the
Colorado's flooding waters
eight years later, however, a
number of people believed he'd
left considerable quantities of
nuggets and coins buried in
cans around his ranch. Some of
those people also believed that
"'\.lu won't find La Paz, Ari­i
uzona, on road maps, but
for a brief period in the 1860s,
it boasted the largest popula­tion
of any town in the state.
The reason for its short but
glorious existence, not sur­prisingly,
was gold. Prospec-tors
recovered
more than
100,000
46 September 1996
JIM BOYER
BY KATERI WEISS
the drowningwas not acciden­tal,
as had been reported, but
that Rood had been knocked
from his small skiff by his ranch
foreman, who knew where the
gold was hidden.
If Rood had amassed a for­tune
in gold since coming west
in 1849, it hadn't come quickly
or easily. Not that this had
bothered him too much. Rood
prided himself on his ability to
survive and thrive among the
many hazards of the frontier
West. On his foray into Califor­nia,
he got lost in Death Valley
with several dozen other Forty­niners.
In the month it took
them to find their way out of
the Mojave Desert, most of the
emigrants became too exhaust­ed
even to carry their guns.
One man buried $6,000 in gold
because he could no longer
bear the weight. Rood not only
held onto his rifle, but in two
canyons along the way he took
the time to carve his name and
the year, 1849, on boulders
(these carvings later helped
historians trace the path of the
Death Valley Forty-niners).
After some ill-fated attempts
at mining and other business
prospects in California, Rood
came to Tucson around 1855.
Within a few years, he owned
fruit tree orchards and a ranch
40 miles south of town.
In 1859 he wrote a letter to
the editor of the Weekly Arizon­ian:
"Some persons insist that it
never rains in this country, and
that this is all a desert; but that
I can assure you is false, for I
have over two hundred head of
cattle in the middle of one of
those wonderful places that
people die for want of water
and food, and my cattle are fat
and doing as well as in any
other part of the country."
Rood also became briefly fa­mous
for skirmishing with a
band of Apaches that began
chasing him while he was rid­ing
near his ranch. The story
has since been recounted in
print numerous times. This
version, written by a cavalry
officer, appeared in The Tucson
Citizen:
'Just as the pursuing Indians
were upon him, he flung him­self
into a willow thicket and
there made his fight. A circle
was formed around him by the
yelling devils, who numbered
at least thirty; but he was too
cool a man to be intimidated
by their infernal demonstra­tions.
For three hours he kept
them at bay with his revolver,
although they poured into the
thicket an almost continuous
volley of rifle shots and arrows.
A ball struck him in the left
arm, near the elbow, and nearly
. ..................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................•
disabled him from loss of
blood. He buried the wounded
part in the sand and continued
the fight until the Indians, ex­asperated
at his stubborn re­sistance,
rushed up in a body,
determined to put an end to
him at once. He had but two
shots left. With one of these he
killed the first Indian that ap­peared,
when the rest whirled
about and stood off ....
"
Rood moved to Yuma Coun­ty
in 1862, shortly after famed
mountain man Paulino Weaver
discovered (or was shown by
Indians) a rich goldfield north
of present-day Yuma. It's likely
that Rood was involved in
prospecting to some extent, but
most of his energy seems to
have been focused on more se­cure
forms of income. Along
with his Rancho de Los Yumas,
which by one estimate had
4,000 head of cattle, he ran a
meat market in La Paz. He also
supplied beef to the soldiers at
Fort Yuma and firewood to the
steamers that came up from the
Sea of Cortes.
On April 29, 1870, Rood set
across the Colorado River to
pay his Indian workers. He was
in a small rowboat with his
foreman, Alex Poindexter. The
next time Rood touched shore
was several months later when
his body washed up on a beach
miles downstream. Poindexter
claimed the boat flipped when
it caught on a snag. He said he
had survived by clinging to the
boat, but that Rood had been
swept away.
Was Rood murdered? His
daughter certainly believed so.
Years later she told her son that
as an old man Poindexter was
overcome with guilt and con­fessed
to knocking her father
overboard by hitting him in
the head with an oar. There is
no record of what his motive
might have been, but hidden
gold is one plausible answer.
At the time of his death, the
only money Rood was known
to have was a few hundred
dollars on deposit with local
merchants - not a lot of sav­ings
for a successful rancher
and businessman.
A lot of digging went on
around Rood's ranch in later
years - and Poindexter was
among those who showed up
with a shovel. If he found any­thing,
he never mentioned it.
In 1896, however, a laborer
named Alfredo Pina allegedly
discovered $1,000 in gold
coins in a can hidden in an
adobe wall of the ranch house.
It was a substantial find, but
some said it was only a frac­tion
of what Rood had stashed.
Rood had a ranch hand named
Leonardo Romo, and according
to a story later written by his
nephew, Romo found a can of
gold on the premises while his
employer was still alive. Think­ing
the can had been poorly
hidden to test his honesty, he
took it to Rood, who said there
were more cans like it around,
but that the "big cache" would
not easily be found.
It's also possible, however,
that Rood himself spent the
money before he died. Though
he was generally known as
a responsible citizen - he
was elected a Yuma County
supervisor in 1868 - he also
was known to go on periodic
binges. A Forty-niner named
William McCoy said he once
saw Rood walking the streets
of Hermosillo, Mexico, hung
over, unshaven, and wearing
peasant clothes. Rood told
McCoy he'd blown $3,000 on
a good-time spree, and now he
was broke. Rood also intimated
in letters to his friend John
Colton that he was capable of
such antics.
The final twist to the story
of Rood's treasure is this: after
he died, several normally sane
people claimed to have en­countered
his ghost patrolling
his ranch on horseback. They
believed "Don Guillermo," as
he was known along the Colo­rado,
was protecting his gold.
Whether Rood's ghost kept
people from finding his trea­sure
is not known, but the
phantom rider certainly kept
some people away.
Mail carrier Felipe Gonzales
frequently spent nights in
Rood's abandoned ranch house
- until he too got spooked.
"This night I wake and hear
a galloping horse and the jingle
of harness," Gonzales later re­called.
"It stops outside the ran­cho
gate, and there is silence.
'Hola!' I cry out, 'who is there?'
No answer. I open the door.
The moon is bright, but no liv­ing
thing is in sight. I don't
stop there anymore." 􁪽􋵁
Arizona Highways 47
ARIZONA HUMOR
•················· .............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................. .
Fine Point of the Law
T he following report was pub­.
llished in a recent edition of
The Tombstone Epitaph under the
heading "Marshal's Log":
"A Tombstone man report­ed
he loaned his vehicle to a
business associate who failed
to return it. The county attor­ney
advised the vehicle could
not be reported stolen because
the intent to permanently de­prive
could not be shown.
"The vehicle was located in
Tampa, Florida."
No Sale
Edward H. Hunngate
Phoenix
I had made what I thought was
a fine sales pitch to an elder­ly
ranch owner, so I was quite
surprised when he turned down
my offer. 1 pressed him for the
reason he didn't buy, and he
said, "Well, if you must know,
it's because I've got my brown
shoes on today."
"Why," l stammered, "that's
no reason at all .... "
"Son," he said, smiling at me,
"if I don't want to do some­thing,
one reason is just as good
as any other."
M.W Cohn
Phoenix
Interesting Question
C or several years, I led Na-
1 ture walks and gave slide
programs and geology talks
when I worked as a park rang­er
at the Grand Canyon's busy
South Rim. I liked to encour­age
people to ask questions,
advising, "There's no such
thing as a stupid question. If
you're thinking of it, chances
are someone else would like
the answer, too."
Once, though, 1 fielded a
question that left me speech­less.
We were discussing the
hundreds of prehistoric An­asazi
ruin sites found within
48 September 1996
Grand Canyon National Park,
when a woman raised her hand
and asked, "I understand these
people lived here, but why did
they build ruins?"
Stephan Block
Cottonwood
Vacation Highlights
' X Then school resumed last
V V fall, my seven-year-old
grandson was asked to write
about his summer vacation.
Aaron decided to write about
the Grand Canyon because he
had recently visited it. How­ever,
we were all a little sur­prised
at what he wrote:
"This summer I visited the
Grand Canyon. It is a place in
Arizona with lots of gift shops
and a very steep ditch."
Wanda Sandoz
Mt. Pass, CA
Arizona Pride
Several years ago, my parents
retired and moved to south­em
Arizona. My father's regard
for his new home state was ev­ident
in his praise of the mild
weather, the panoramic vistas,
and intriguing historical spots.
But his passion for his new
home was never more evident
than on a recent trip to Cali­fornia.
While on a family pic­nic,
we were admiring the
"Perhaps we should postpone sand-painting lessons
until cold season is over."
TO SUBMIT HUMOR
Send us a short note about your humorous
experiences in Arizona, and we'll pay $75 for
each one we publish.
We're looking for short stories, no more than
200 words, that deal with Arizona topics and have a
humorous punch line.
Send them to Humor, Arizona Highways, 2039 W Lewis Ave.,
Phoenix, AZ 85009. Please enclose your name, address, and
telephone number with each submission.
We'll notify those whose stories we intend to publish,
but we cannot acknowledge or return unused submissions.
brilliant blue sky complete
with fluffy, billowing white
clouds on the horizon.
"Yeah, they're preny," my
father said, obviously unim­pressed
"But in Arizona, we'd
paint those clouds orange."
No Bones
Tanya Stowe
Lancaster, CA
Awoman from the East visit­ed
our RV gift shop this
summer. She referred to a ce­ramic
buffalo skull I'd made as
though it were a real one, so 1
hastily informed her it was not.
"Oh, I knew that," she replied.
"It doesn't look at all like the
real horse skull next to it."
"Ma'am," l said, patiently,
"that's not a horse skulL Hors­es
don't have horns."
"Well," she said indignantly,
"you just can't tell anymore
with all this crossbreeding go­ing
on, like jackalopes."
Harvey Mickelson
Flagstaff
Modern Solution
;\ local rancher spoke to a
.L\..group of kids at the library
about the use of chuck wagons
on the range. As a finale to his
presentation, he began to cook
Dutch oven biscuits.
The children gathered around
a bed of coals in the parking lot
while the rancher mixed the bis­cuit
dough in a big pan, using
the tailgate of his pickup as a
make-believe chuck wagon.
"Look at what the cook is
doing now!" exclaimed the li­brarian
to one wiggly youngster.
"See, he is putting in the flour.
Plop, there goes the lard. Is tms
the way your mom makes bis­cuits
at home?"
One little boy turned to his
[riend in total bewilderment
and whispered, "My mom just
gets them out of a can."
Delane Blondeau
Portal
ROADSIDE REST
• ···· ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................. .
Captivating
Yavapai County
Reluctantly Spawns
a Population Boom
It's dawned on us recently
that many close friends and
working acquaintances from all
the compass points have some­how
arranged to pass their best
and maybe final years in and
around Prescott.
There is the consummate
Texas editor whose wife now
breathes the clear, pine-scent­ed
air of mile-high Prescott, far
removed from humidity and
pollution. And the long ago
Virginia school chum, become
the renowned physician. And
the no-longer-sailing couple
retired from Ohio to a glassy
eagle's nest overlooking the
Verde Valley. And a former Cali­fornia
shopkeeper now dwell­ing
as a hermit in a simple
cabin in a remote canyon.
Not to mention the native­born
and in-state refugees who
get away from the hustle and
stress of Phoenix and other Ari­zona
urban centers. New and
old Prescottonians prefer the
open spaces and genteel life­style
of our state's first territo­rial
capital. Alas, in so doing,
each contributes to the boom­ing
population, and quickening
economy, of one of Arizona's
fastest -growing communities.
"Don't you ever, ever, ever
dare to write a complimentary
article again about Prescott, do
you hear?" a fifth-generation
daughter of Prescott pioneers
fairly shrieked at me in conver­sation
some months ago. "We
should have thrown a chain
across the highway when we
had the chance."
Should have, maybe. But
didn't.
TEX T BY DON OEDERA
IL L USTRAT I ON BY 8. SCO TT H AN N A
'X l ith its classic Yavapai
V V County Courthouse and
plaza, public forests, historic
Whiskey Row, romantic Vic­torian
neighborhoods, enter­prising
Indian landowners,
artistic expositions, and ath­letic
events - including the
world's oldest rodeo - Pres­cott
would inevitably attract
the visitors and settlers whose
sheer numbers would spur the
town to a faster pace.
Also working against the
wishes of my keep-Prescott­small
lady friend was the
personal charm of the early
generations of Yavapai County
people themselves. By illustra­tion,
when I was younger and
writing a daily newspaper col­umn,
a gentleman from Terre
Haute, Indiana, appeared one
day to explain why he was sat­isfying
a years-long ambition
to see Yavapai County first­hand.
Ned Bush by name, the
Hoosier testified:
"During the 1930s, I was a
reporter for the Courier in
Evansville, Indiana, and it was
newsworthy when a deputy
sheriff from Prescott came to
my town to pick up a prisoner
accused of an Arizona crime.
"I went over to the hotel to
interview the deputy. He had
on a big cowboy hat and ranch
clothes, boots and all. We hit it
off just fine. I asked him about
the West and cases he had
worked on and the country
where he lived. It was more of
a friendly talk than an inter­view,
but, as it was growing late
in the afternoon, I finally got
up to go.
"The deputy asked me to
dinner. He said he would be
honored if I'd stay and go on
talking to him, exchanging
facts about our two states.
" 'I'm sorry,' I said, 'but my
family will be expecting me.
My wife will have dinner wait­ing.
Much obliged. Thanks all
the same.'
'The deputy insisted. He said
he could get the hotel to fix din­ner
in a hurry, and we would
have some more conversation.
"I told him he was kind, but
wouldn't he please understand
that, if I didn't run on home,
my folks would begin to worry
about me. Thanks very much,
but no thanks.
"Right then, so quick that he
took me by surprise, the dep­uty
drew his handcuffs and
snapped one cuff on my wrist.
"He dragged me over to the
foot of the bed and snapped
the other cuff to the bedstead.
And this is what he said:
"'Friend, I'm from Yavapai
County. And where 1 come
from, when a man is invited to
dinner, he stays.'
'When the dinner was eaten,
the deputy fished up his key
and unlocked the handcuffs
and let me go.
"I've long since forgotten his
name.
"But I guess I'll remember
Yavapai County as long as
I live."
Ned saw the Prescott of
about 16,000 residents,
all shopping within walking
distance of home. The $harlot
Hall Museum complex was
expanding around the original
log Governor's Mansion, and
more than a few inspired cul­tural
leaders were parlaying a
splendid public school tradi­tion
into a flowering of statu­ary,
symphony, and opera.
Today, depending on where
the line is drawn, greater Pres­cott
counts some 30,000 souls.
Efforts have been made to con­trol
and plan for the growth
of Yavapai County, little of
which mollifies my first-fam­ily
Prescottonian who failed
to hang the chain across the
highway. Hers is the unwant­ed
inheritance of a people and
a place that is unforgettably
captivating. ~
Arizona Highways 49
B A C K ROAD ADVENTURE
•..........
...........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................•
Trekking
Buenos Aires
Wildlife Refuge
by Mountain Bike
BuenosAires means much
more than "good air" in
southern Arizona. It also means
fields of waving waist-high
grass, herds of pronghorn, vis­tas
of Arizona and Mexico, and
a place of rejuvenation for the
masked bobwhite quail.
Buenos Aires Ranch was a
cattle spread dating from the
1880s. The U.S. Fish and
Wildlife Service purchased the
116,000-acre property in 1985,
creating the Buenos Aires Na­tional
Wildlife Refuge. The land
was vastly different from its
preranching state because of
drought and overgrazing. Im­ported
grasses and mesquite
eventually so altered the eco­system
that native flora was
choked out, and many indige­nous
animals could no longer
flourish there.
Thea Ulen, outdoor rec­reation
planner at the refuge,
explains that the ranch was
purchased to return Buenos
Aires to the Sonoran savanna
grassland habitat it once was,
while, in the process, improv­ing
the conditions for the sur­vival
of the masked bobwhite
quail, once believed extinct and
now an endangered species.
Also reintroduced was a herd
of about 87 Chihuahuan prong­horn,
one of North America's
fastest animals, able to cruise
at 40 miles per hour and top
out at 60. Because of their re­semblance
to African antelope,
pronghorn are often called an­telope,
although actually they
are not closely related.
Most of the 200 miles of
back roads in the refuge are
50 September 1996
TEXT BY PHILIP VARNEY
PHOTOGRAPHS BY PETER NOEBELS
(ABOVE) When photographer Peter Noebels stopped along a trail in
the Buenos Aires Wildlife Refuge, he left his bike to go exploring.
(OPPOSITE PAGE) Baboquivari Peak, sacred to the Tohono O'odham
as the home of their god I'itoi, looms in the distance.
open to the public, and we're
here with mountain bikes to
ride one of the best loops in the
state. On a clear fall morning,
about 20 of us take off from
refuge headquarters and turn
south onto Antelope Drive, a
two-lane dirt road for passen­ger
cars and the principal route
for visitors who wish to explore
the area. Some of the first riders
immediately spot several prong­horn
loping across a plain.
Mesquite and prickly pear
dot the prairie, and wheat-col­ored
grass grows everywhere.
Much of it is a South African
import, Lehman's lovegrass,
nutritionally far inferior to na­tive
grama grasses. Refuge re­searchers
are systematically
doing controlled bums to elim­inate
love grass so that native
species can again dominate as
they did before the 1970s when
the foreign grass was intro­duced
to the region.
Looming behind us is Babo­quivari
Peak, at 7,730 feet the
most dramatic feature of Altar
Valley (see Arizona Highways,
Jan. '92). This magnificent crag,
sacred to the Tohono O'odham
as the home of their god I'itoi,
will appear to us many times
on the loop as we top a ridge
or climb out of a ravine.
More than 100 ponds are
scattered throughout the ref­uge,
so we are on the lookout
for some of the 300 species of
birds that live here or migrate
through in the fall. The first
large pond, Lopez Tank, is 4.7
miles into our ride, but it's dry
- and birdless.
At 7.8 miles, we reach our
first junction, a T in the road
less than two miles north of the
Mexican border. A right turn
would take us to Sasabe, a tiny
border village three miles away
We go left, leaving Antelope
Drive and heading east toward
the San Luis Mountains.
We reach our second junc­tion
at 11. 4 miles, a place
where three roads converge.
The right fork leaves Buenos
Aires toward Mexico; the mid­dle
goes to the headquarters
of the old Garcia Ranch (no
trespassing), now part of the
refuge. We take the left fork,
heading north on the most
primitive of the three roads.
For a truck, this is four-wheel­drive
territory
In 0.3 of a mile, we arrive at
the Garcia Cemetery, still main­tained
by the Garcia family Less
than a mile beyond the ceme­tery,
we climb into an area that
features lovely quartz outcrop­pings
and barrel cactus, ocotil­lo,
yucca, and desert broom.
Naturally everyone hopes
to see some masked bobwhite
quail, but that's unlikely: cur­rently
only an estimated 300
to 500 live in the wild on the
refuge (more awaiting release
reside in an aviary closed to
the public). So far I've seen
some Gambel's quail, a distant
hawk, and about a dozen Chi­huahuan
ravens, which are
BACK ROAD ADVENTURE
• ···································································•··· ........................................................ ................................................................................................................................................. .
slightly smaller than the com­mon
raven.
Our third junction comes
after 12.9 miles. A large mes­quite
with a huge barrel cac­tus
almost six feet high to its
right and three red barberry
bushes to its left marks the
spot. Our route will be to the
left, crossing Canoa Wash. But
we take the right anyway for
0.2 of a mile to Rock Tank to
see a picturesque windmill
creaking away. Then we retrace
our route back to that third
junction, now taking a right.
We reach our fourth junction
at l3. 7 miles. Going straight
ahead would take us back to
Antelope Drive, but we take
a right and head down a steep
slope, carefully keeping our
bikes under control, into a
wash. The slow climb up the
other side is a test of heart,
lungs, and legs.
At 14.5 miles, we climb a
ridge and, almost at the crest,
take a right fork. We missed
this tum the first time we rode
the loop, but our mistake sim­ply
took us to Antelope Drive.
This time, taking the right fork,
we head down into a beauti­ful
valley and through another
field of quartz.
Our now rather meager road
ends at 16.1 miles at aT with a
much more substantial route.
At this point, we've been out
for just about two hours and
have climbed 1,100 feet.
I comment to the group of
riders that I have never been
in a place where I felt better
TIPS FOR TRAVELERS
To reach the Buenos Aires National Wildlife Refuge from
Tucson, take State Route 86 (Ajo Way) west from Interstate
19. At Three Points, also known as Robles junction, 22 miles
from Tucson, turn south onto State Route 286. The refuge
entrance is 38 miles south, just beyond Milepost 8. The
refuge is open to visitors every day, and admission is free.
The headquarters is open 7:30A.M. to 4 P.M., weekdays,
except holidays. Even when the refuge office is closed,
the reception area is open, offering brochures and maps.
For more information, including times of tours and slide
shows, write the refuge at PO. Box 109, Sasabe, AZ 85633
or call (520) 823-4251.
Back road travel can be hazardous if you are not prepared
for the unexpected. Whether traveling in the desert or in the
high country, be aware of weather and road conditions and
make sure you and your vehicle are in top shape and you have
plenty of water. Don't travel alone, and let someone at home
know where you're going and when you plan to return.
about the use of my tax money.
Others nod in agreement, one
even intoning an "amen."
We turn left and get ready
for the day's final treat. There's
nothing like ending a ride on a
downhill, and this easy, gradu­al
descent lasts for 4.7 miles. I
(OPPOSITE PAGE) Prickly pear
flourishes along the trail
followed by our cyclists from
the Southern Arizona
Mountain Bike Association.
(LEFT) The bikers follow the
road through Altar Valley
toward 7, 730-foot
Baboquivari Peak.
stop to watch others passing by
and see one common denomi­nator:
everyone is grinning.
We rejoin Antelope Drive at
20.8 miles, just south of the
refuge headquaners, now a half
mile away. We retrace our route
to our starting point.
Few riders glimpsed any
pronghorn; no one viewed a
masked bobwhite quail; but
after this splendid 21-mile loop,
no one is disappointed. Alexis
Noebels is euphoric about our
ride, the longest mountain bike
excursion she has ever taken.
When her husband, Peter, ar­rives,
having photographed the
riders using my four-wheel­drive
truck, she exclaims that
on the toughest uphill climbs,
when she was gasping, she
could tell how dean and pure
the air is here. Peter smiles
warmly at her and says, "Well,
this is Buenos Aires!" H
Arizona Highways 53
MILEPOSTS
• ···················································· ....................................................... ................. . ...............................................................................................................................................•
Outback Boutique
Driving the dirt road into
Cochise Stronghold,
immersed in the tumul­tuous
days when the
famous chief and
his Chiricahua
Apaches roamed
this land and
tangled with the
bluecoats, I was
jolted back to the present by a
sign giving directions to the
Fashion Products Gift Shop. A
"boutique" way out here in the
Dragoon Mountains? I'm no
shopper, but this I had to see.
I followed the directions and
was soon chatting with Ursula
Pitz, who was glad to show me
her handiwork: sweatshirts and
Western-style shins decorated
with colorful Southwestern de­signs
which she sells out of a
room in the house she shares
w

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ARIZONJ.\
HIGHWAYS
SEPTEMBER 1996 VOLUME 72 NUMBER 9
•..................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................•
COVER STORY PAGE 38
Tales of the Past Lure Rail Travelers
John Rose is the engaging raconteur aboard the
San Pedro and Southwestern Railroad, spell-binding
passengers with legends of the Old Southwest and the
characters who spawned them. Come take the scenic
train ride through the country Tombstone and Wyatt
Earp made famous.
(LEFT) The camouflaged moth
in this photograph illustrates
why few of them are seen in
the daytime, says our expert.
See portfolio on page 22.
MARTY CORDANO
(FRONT COVER) Spectacular
scenery and history highlight
the train excursion from
Benson to onetime wild and
woolly Charleston. See story on
page 38. ERROL ZIMMERMAN
(BACK COVER) Cottonwood
trees line the banks of the stream
flOWing through Canyon de
Chelly, where a jeep caravan
explores geologie wonders
and Indian ruins. See story on
page 12. GEORGEH. H. HUEY
DEPARTMENTS
INDIANS
Navajo Storytelling
Invited to a Navajo family
storytelling session, our
author gathers tales from the
Holy People, ancient stories of
the natural world and man's
place within it. PAGE 32
TRAVEL
Jeep Touring
in Canyon Country
Dodging quicksand and
fording floorboard-high
streams fail to deter our
backcountry travelers from
exploring the rich and
colorful past of canyons de
Chelly and mysterious del
Muerto in Navajo Country
PAGE 12
PORTFOLIO
The Moth and the Flame
Set a spell with our
"moth person" in the
Huachuca Mountains
and catch the flame of one
man's everlasting passion
for moths. And find out why
you don't see many moths
in daytime. PAGE 22
MINING
Arizona Gems
Find Worldwide Markets
What Cheri Saunders
found was a pale blue vein
that turned out to be harder
and more delicately colored
than any gemstone she'd seen.
But what was it? PAGE 10
Along the Way
I didn't shoot Bambi's mother.
Letters 3
Wit Stop 44
How to lose a fortune and not move from your deck chair.
Legends of the Lost 46
Was the treasure of Rancho de Los Yumas lost or merely spent?
Arizona Humor 48
Roadside Rest 49
The trials and tribulations of Yavapai County growth.
Back Road Adventure 50
Mountain bikers tackle the Buenos Aires wildlife
MilepostslEvents 54
Hike of the Month 56
A seven-mile exercise in
HISTORY
Tales of Tombstone's
Bird Cage Theatre
"The theater became the
Southwest's most famous
vaudeville playhouse, and
even today," says our author,
"almost 120 years later, it is
still being written about and
visited by tourists, who can
only try to imagine what
went on there during its
heyday" PAGE 18
RECREATION
Lees Ferry, a Haven
for Humongous Trout
"There are trout in this
river that can still make my
knees quiver," says fishing
guide Terry Gunn as he and
our author fish the Colorado.
PAGE 4
HISTORY
The Turkey Legend
of Henry C. Hooker
Henry knew he had a
money-making idea as soon
as he thought of the turkeys.
But no one had ever herded
gobblers before. PAGE 36
2
POINTS
OF INTEREST
FEATURE.D
IN THIS ISSUE
Arizona Highways 1
ALONG T HE WAY
•................................................................................................................................................. ··························· .....................................................................................................•
A Thick Slice
of Prime Rib
Excites Those
Primal Urges
Lt me make it clear
at the outset that I
am not the person who
shot Bambi's mother. It
may have been my dad or
my brother, who between
them probably killed
about as many deer as
there are commas in this
piece. For some reason,
even though I grew up
in the wilds of north
Idaho and my dad and
brother were dedicated
hunters, I never developed an
interest in hunting. I tried, but
it just wasn't in me.
It wasn't that I had some
moralistic attitude about shoot­ing
animals for food, although
I did enjoy the movie Bambi as
a boy, and I remember crying
when his mother was shot by a
hunter. But understand, I grew
up routinely seeing deer and
bear hanging by their back legs
in our garage, watching them
being skinned, smelling the
puddled blood, then eating
them with my family.
When I left Idaho and came
to live in San Francisco (which
is, incidentally. named for Saint
Francis, the patron saint of an­imals),
it was inevitable that I
encounter my share of the gar­den
variety vegetarians who re­gard
meat-eaters as wicked
and/or misguided people. A
while back, while on my way
to a prime rib dinner as part
of a celebrity function I was
covering as a journalist, I dis­covered
the following hors
d'oeuvre for thought on a post­er
affixed to a telephone pole:
MEAT IS MURDER. There also
2 September 1996
TEXT BY LARRY TRITTEN
ILLUSTRATION BY ROB WIEDEMAN
was an ancillary sermon ex­plaining
why.
Vegetarians tend to be a
pious bunch who don't em­phasize
a vegetable diet be­cause
they love vegetables but
because they believe that kill­ing
animals is wrong. Person­ally
I can respect the feeling
that motivates that point of
view while remaining an un­repentant
carnivore.
Many things in life seem un­fair
when you put them on an
idealistic graph. One of the facts
of Nature is that there are two
kinds of animals: those that eat
grass and those that eat the ones
that eat the grass. (Vegetarians
should note that in a sense all
flesh is grass.) If you happen to
be one of the grass-eaters, it's a
bad deal. It means that you've
got to spend your whole life
looking over your shoulder,
like an accountant who made
off with some Mafia money.
And you're never going to get
much sleep or be able to sleep
very deeply. The only animals
that sleep soundly are the pred­ators.
The average antelope on
the veldt will catch a minute or
two of sleep at a time, with luck,
and some plains animals that
are always being hunted actual­ly
sleep with their eyes open.
Cats, the most serious pred­ators
of all, have earned the
right to sleep much of the time
strictly because they have a
biological heritage of not living
in fear of being eaten like the
animals they prey on. They're
fortunate enough to be the eat­ers
instead of the eatees. Cats
need meat in order to live -
they live by eating life. So if
you're a vegetarian who moral­izes
about killing animals for
food and you like cats, then
you're hardly being logical
about your ideals. I like cats
and am not disturbed by the
fact that they are in essence
vampires incarnate.
As a boy I had a .22 rifle,
but tin cans and bottles were
my prey. I just couldn't get into
going after animals, including
the countless birds my dad
and brother constantly stalked.
But I did do some fishing, pos­sibly
because it didn't require
as much dramatic commitment
as hunting game, was a much
more leisurely activity, and
usually yielded quicker
results. I suspect that the
kind of lake fishing I
used to enjoy is to
hunting game roughly
what playing slot ma­chines
is to playing poker.
Well I don't hunt, but I
just can't imagine a buffet
where salads are the sole
bill of fare. lf Noah really
did get all of those animals
to coexist on his ark like
the amicable menagerie in
Rousseau's painting The
Peaceable Kingdom. I sus­pect
it was just until they
could resume their natu­ral
roles of predators and
prey when they returned
to the land.
And I'm bored by the argu­ment
that meat is murder, espe­cially
corning from those who
have any leather in their ward­robe,
on their books, and so on.
As a mammal, I'm stuck with a
racial heritage that includes
hunting, herding, and farming.
I'm not personally hooked on
the challenge of the hunt (sure­ly
not as long as there are wait­ers),
yet a good prime cut stirs
something primal in my ap­petite.
That's why when 1 go
back to Idaho to visit, I look
forward to eating some elk or
bear meat if I can get it- ex­otic
meat not available to
most people.
I enjoy seeing animals an­thropomorphized,
too , as in
Bambi. I'm a carnivore with a
sense of humor. It's interest­ing
to note that Disney's most
successful film, The Lion King,
gives equal time to predators,
which have upstaged the deer
at the box office.
As for Bambi, l'm more curi­ous
about why all of those par­ents
named their daughters
after a male deer than I am
about who shot his mother. n
LETTERS T 0 THE EDITOR
. ............................................................... .. .... .. . ..................................................................................................................................................................................... .
ARIZON~
HIGHWAYS
SEPTEMBER 1996 VOL. 72, NO. 9
Publisher-Nina M. La France
Editor-Roben j. Early
Managing Editor-Richard G. Stahl
Associate Editor-Rebecca Mong
Photography Director-Peter Ensenberger
Art Director-Mary Winkelman Velgos
Deputy Art Director- Barbara Denney
Associate Art Director- Russ Wall
Production Assistant-Vicky Snow
Managing Editor, Books-Bob Albano
Associate Editor, Books- Roben J. Farrell
Circulation and Marketing Director­Debbie
Thompson
Finance Director-Roben M. Steele
Fulfillment Director-Bethany Braley
lnrormation Systems Manager- Brian McGrath
Production
Director-Ondy Mackey
Coordinator-Kim Gibson
~ign Manager- Patricia Romano McNear
Governor-fife Symmgton
Direaor, Depanment ofTranspona1ion
Lany s. Bonine
Arizona T ransponation Board
Clulirman: Sharon B. Megdal. Ph.D., Tucson
Vtce Clulirman: Dooovan M. Kramtt s,, Casa Grnnde
MvnMr$: F. Rockne Arnett, Mesa;
john I. Hudson, Yuma;jack Husted,
Spnngerville: Burton Kruglick, Phoenix;
Jeny C. Williams. Morenci
Toll-free nationwide number
for customer inquiries and orders:
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Internet "Letters to the Editor":
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International Regional Magazine
Association
liM\
Best Regional & State Magazine
1995, 1993, 1992, 1991
Western Publications Assn.
Best Monthly Travel Magazine
1995 Silver Award, 1994 Silver
Award, 1993 Bronze Award,
Society of American
Travel Writers Foundation
i\~ona Highways® (ISSN 0004-1521) Is
pubhshtd monthly by the Arizooa Oeportm􁪽􋴲2torm raced across northern Arizona, then a
􁪽􋴚􁪽􋴭- brisk qld front blew out the clouds. Now a sizzling
clarity.has descended on the canyon, making the
landscape pop out in all three dimensions.
This stunning backdrop tests my concentration. Be­side
me, polished sandstone walls play host to flow­ering
redbud trees. In back, a stupendous bighorn
sheep stands etched into the cliff by ancient hands.
And right in front of me, a swallow darts between my
hands as I tie on a fly. How can I keep my eyes on the
water? I feel the whole canyon reverberate in stark
contrasts: impenetrable shadows and diamond-sharp
reflections, frigid water and burning sand, immutable
rock and fleeting pink blossoms. Even my body re­sponds.
Hot gusts sweep my face while the river
froths like iced champagne around my knees.
In the midst of all this, a large shadow navigates
through the bubbly past my legs. Trout. A brawny
fellow. He fins over to join his colleagues who are
lined up like trucks waiting to be loaded. Won­dering
if they might want to fill up on some im-itation
midges, I offer
them a dry fly called an
"Adams." But the trout
ignore it completely, pre­ferring
to stare off at the
scenery instead.
"Let's go," Terry orders.
We clamber back aboard
his 20-foot riverboat and
drive farther north. At a
spot called Russell's Place,
we jump out onto another
sunken gravel bar, and this
time Terry rigs our lead­ers
with "scuds": orange
flies that imitate freshwater
shrimp. Then we spread
out, Terry taking the dif­ficult
hard-running cur­rents
at the head of the bar.
On his first cast, he strikes a trout. The fish jumps
boldly and streaks for the middle of the river, but
Terry quickly brings it around. Soon he is releasing
a 17-inch rainbow brightly splashed with rouge-col­ored
gill plates and crimson-blotched sides. "A
spawning male," Terry tells me as he watches the fish
swim off unharmed. "Isn't he beautiful?" I notice the
WHILE THE RIVER
FROTHS LIKE
ICED CHAMPAGNE
TEXT BY
RICK HEFFERNON
PHOTOGRAPHS BY
RICHARD MAACK grimness has gone.
(PRECEDING PANEL, PAGES 4 AND 5) Guide Terry Gunn
casts for trout in the Colorado River at Lees Ferry.
(ABOVE) Author Rick Heffernan wades in 48° F water,
where the canyon walls come down to the river.
(RIGHT) Gunn and Heffernan work upstream, fishing
the crystal-clear waters below Glen Canyon Dam.
THE RIVER AT LEES FERRY
Terry quickly hooks another fish, and another,
each one similar in size and color to the first. Then
it is my turn. At the head of a sluggish eddy, I spot
a four-pack of trout rocking like sunken boats against
the bottom. I strip out 40 feet of my floating line and
cast above them, letting the current carry my scud
to the fish. When the fly has floated within a foot or
so of the pack, a pan-size fellow swishes out of
nowhere, snatches the scud, and cruises forward a
yard or two. Instinctively I shoot my rod up in the
air and haul back to set the hook, but the fish keeps
going, taking fly, leader, and my rising hope along
with him.
"What happened?" I ask Terry. "How did that little
guy break my line?"
"That 'little guy' was two and one-half pounds,"
Terry says softly. "I think, maybe, you set the hook
a bit hard."
I ponder this mistake and decide my problem is
simply one of scale. Nowhere else would I confuse
(RIGHT) Heffernonfrees a trout according to
catch-and-release regulations at Lees Ferry.
(BELOW) Gunn observes Heffernon'sfly-casting
technique and offers helpful tips.
(OPPOSITE PAGE) Late light breaks through to
illuminate the Vermilion Cliffs on a stormy evening.
/;1_lj.J$iJ_.1?'f"j'5􁪽􋵟_􁪽􋴱1IllJ:irQ'!ll7U_'!V'f_..--/'
C"
a two-and-one-half-pound lunker with a pan-size
trout. But I will discover I'm not the only one here
troubled by a poor sense of scale.
We are working another gravel bar, where the
algae-covered rocks roll like bowling balls underfoot.
A nice trout rises to eat my scud, and I promptly set
the hook, gently this time. To my surprise, the fish
barely moves. Instantly Terry is at my side delivering
a high-speed flurry of instructions: "Ready now.
Loosen some line. He's gonna run, so be prepared.
There! Give him line. Let him go. Good ... now get
ready. He's slowing tum him around. Okay, strip
in line ... quick haul it in faster. Now, rod tip
over to the right. Lift his head up. Out of the water
... lift. Do it!"
But I don't lift fast enough, and the trout swirls
angrily, shaking from tip to tail before he plows off
to the depths. I feed out line furiously in an attempt
to keep up with him. Am I still attached? I think so.
But then my line goes slack.
Terry pokes me. "Strip in line," he commands.
"Hurry!" So I haul in armloads of line, letting it coil
at my knees before it drifts downstream in the cur­rent.
Finally I feel a tug - the fish - and then I
feel his weight dragging against each yard of recov­ered
line.
"Lift that rod," Terry urges next. "Be aggressive.
Get his head up." I force the butt end of my nine-foot
TROUT IN
THIS RIVER
THAT CAN STILL
MAKE MY
KNEES QUIVER.
fly rod toward the sky, and the tip doubles
over on itself, tracing a delicate arc that cul­minates
in a silver and red torpedo. Terry
glides over to gently support the fish by
its belly.
''Twenty-two inches long," he says. "Three
pounds-plus. A beauty." He unhitches the
barbless hook from the trout's lip, and we
pose for pictures until our guest departs in
a ripple of cool power. Afterward I ask
Terry to explain a small red gash I noticed
on the trout's back.
"Oh," he says, "that was probably where
8 September 1996
WHEN YOU GO
a great blue heron poked him with his bill."
"You're kidding," I say. "Why would it try
such a thing? No heron could ever handle
a three-pound fish."
Terry shrugs. "Who knows?" he says.
"Herons seem to have no sense of scale."
Ah, I nod. That's my problem here, too.
Later, on the return ride, I question Terry
about his own sense of scale. As a profes­sional
guide, he must catch and release big
trout on a daily basis. Is there any thrill left
for him at Lees Ferry?
"Rick," Terry says, "I have seen more
Best time to go: Fishing in Glen Canyon is good in any season
because the river temperature stays constant at about 48° F
The most pleasant air temperatures occur in spring and fall.
Getting there: Lees Ferry is located in Glen Canyon National
Recreation Area, approximately 275 miles north of Phoenix.
Take Interstate 17 north 146 miles to Flagstaff, then U.S. Route
89 north another 111 miles, then U.S. Route 89A for 14 miles
to Marble Canyon where signs indicate the five-mile access
road to Lees Ferry. A developed campground and boat launch
area are available.
Where to fish: The best trout fishing is in the 15 miles of river
between the boat launch site at Lees Ferry and Glen Canyon
Dam. Some shore fishing is possible in the first mile and a half
from Lees Ferry, otherwise power boats are necessary. Because
of dangerous river currents, a guide is recommended.
Guides: Lees Ferry Anglers books fishing trips with Terry Gunn
and several other guides. Rates average between $200 and $300
per day depending on the number in the Boat
three-pound fish than you'd care to think
about, but, believe me, there are trout in
this river that can still make my knees
quiver." He pauses while I visualize a trout
the size of a Nautilus submarine with gills
and a rainbow stripe down its side. Then
Terry adds, "And there will be more when
we learn to protect them." n
Pine-based Rick Heffernon preViously contributed an
article about attending a fly-fishing school. He considers
his Lees Ferry experience "the final exam."
Phoenix-based Richard Maack says he used to fish for
fish but now angles only for photographs.
also are available. For more information, call toll-free (800)
962-9755. Names of other local guides may be obtained by
calling businesses in the area, such as Marble Canyon Lodge
at (520) 355-2225.
Fishing tips: A new state law directs that "fish shall be taken
only by artificial lures and flies with barbless hooks" on that
portion of the Colorado River from Glen Canyon Dam to
Marble Canyon Bridge (Lees Ferry) in Coconino County.
If you do not have barbless hooks, use pliers to close the barbs
on your hooks. Bring the fish in as swiftly as possible. Keep
the fish in the water and do not squeeze it. If you anticipate
difficulty dislodging the hook, cut the leader. Allow a tired fish
to completely recover before releasing by holding the tail with
one hand and supporting the fish under the
belly with the other hand. Point the head
upstream and gently move the fish back
and forth so the gills begin pumping
oxygen. The fish will swim off when ready.
Arizona Highways 9
CHERI SAUND E RS AND HER OPAL MINE
truck lurched to a stop at the edge of
ocky creek bed in the Atascosa Moun­ns
a few miles north of the Mexican
border. Mike Anderson reached for the
lever to his right.
"Time for four-wheel drive," he said,
pulling the gearshift into low.
We inched our way up a nearly vertical
hill, following a road that was well on its
way toward returning to Nature. Occasion­ally
rocks the size of footballs spun away
from the rear wheels, tumbling into ravines
and disappearing into thickets of gnarled
oaks and juniper trees.
"Believe it or not, when I started pros­pecting
this area this road was even worse,"
said Cheri Saunders as the tires hit a hole
and jolted her into Mike's shoulder.
"A year or two ago, a TV reporter from
Tucson wanted to come out here to do a
story on our opal mine. We'd barely got
started down these hills when she had
to get out of the truck. She
couldn't handle it. She
thought we were going to
tum over and roll down the
side of a mountain. This is
very rugged country around
here. Most people don't re­alize
how rough it is."
It took a full hour to cover
the four miles between Ruby
Road and the Jay-R Mine,
where Saunders found the
first of her rare blue opals
and launched a rocks-to­riches
saga some 2 7 years
10 September 1996
ago. The find was the sort
of thing that rock hounds
and prospectors dream
about: a pleasant day wan­dering
in the Arizona out­back
that leads to a decent
income and a satisfying
vocation.
A
ROCKS
TO
SAGA
TEXT BY SAM NEGR I
PHO TOGRAPHS BY JEFFREY A . SCOVIL
"I prospected all these hills looking for
goodies," Saunders said, pointing to the
rises that flank Ruby Road between Arivaca
and Pena Blanca Lake about 60 miles south
of Tucson.
was a pale blue vein harder than turquoise
or malachite and more delicately colored
than any gemstones she had previously
seen. But the truth is, at the time, Saunders
didn't know what she had found.
"A prospector doesn't look for just one
thing, you know. A pros-
Saunders interrupted her narrative on
pector is an adventurer. I
wanted to find a new poc­ket
somewhere that no­body
had ever found, and
I did."
What Saunders discov­ered
in that winter of 1969
(ABOVE) Cheri Saunders uses a pick to dig out some rock
at her opa1-rich]ay-R Mine.
(BELOW, LEFT) The mine sits in rough country in Santa
Cruz County. Vehicular travel here is slow-going.
(BELOW, RIGHT) Gemstones found at Saunders' mine
are natural blue opals.
the past as Anderson stopped in front of a
wall of gray rock about seven feet high. She
pointed to a vertical white stripe about as
wide as a butter knife.
"When you see that, you're probably
going to find opal," she said with authority
'This is mostly quartz and chalcedony here,
but it's an indication that there may be opal
underneath. There is a slight difference in
the opal-bearing rock that we can detect.
Well, maybe it's the other way around. We
certainly know what rock not to find it in.
There's a lot of that."
In 1969 neither Saunders nor her hus­band,
James, realized they had stumbled
upon a rare deposit of blue opals. Prospec­tors
who originally came west in the 1950s
to search for uranium, they had contem­plated
Arizona's geologic conundrums long
enough to realize that what they had found
in the Atascosas was very unusual, even if
they didn't know precisely what it was.
Years later the Gem Trade Laboratory of
the Gemological Institute of America ana­lyzed
samples from the Jay-R Mine and
confirmed them to be natural opals, in this
case blue ones.
Unfortunately James Saunders did not
live long enough to realize the extent of
the bonanza his wife had struck. The cou­ple
had staked six claims on the property,
which is a part of the Coronado National
Forest, in 1970, but James died of can­cer
in 1973. TheJay-R Mine became his
memorial.
Before his death, James had taught his
wife some basic mining skills. She knew a
little about drills and jackhammers and
how to set a dynamite charge. The couple
also had bought a lapidary kit from Sears.
For a while after James' death, Saunders
worked the opal mine alone, bringing the
raw minerals back
to her home and
cutting and polish­ing
the stones.
At the same time,
she took courses in
jewelry-making.
Eventually she met
Mike Anderson, an
avid outdoorsman,
and they became
partners in quarry­ing
the opals. For
several years, they
painstakingly extracted the opals using a
primitive drill, dynamite, and then long
crowbars to pry through the fractured rock
in search of the best deposits. In the pro­cess,
they moved tons of rock in small
wheelbarrow loads.
Eventually Saunders and Anderson moved
15 miles north of Sierra Vista to Whetstone,
where they had the convenience of a gallery
and workshop. At the time, Saunders was
making pendants and bracelets and ear­rings,
using settings she had designed and
opals she had mined, and selling them at
crafts fairs at Fort Huachuca. That's where
representatives of the Tucson Gem and Min­eral
Show, one of the world's largest markets
for gemstones, found her.
"These people looked at our opals and
told us it was pretty nice stuff, and they sug­gested
we write a letter to the board of the
gem show and that maybe we'd eventual­ly
be accepted as participants," Saunders
recalled.
A few years later, she and Anderson
were accepted as exhibitors at the show,
and their blue opals began to attract the
attention of geologists and museum cur­ators
from around the world. Specimens
from theJay-R Mine are now
(ABOVE) These opals were cut and polished. The largest
one, center; measures nine millimeters in width.
displayed in natural history
museums in Vienna, Austria,
and Ottawa, Canada, among
(BELOW, LEFT AND RIGHT) Saunders sells jewlery, created other places.
with opals from the ]ay-R Mine, at her art gallery. The
opal and gold brooch is 4.6 centimeters wide. An exquisite
piece of opal was set in silver for a stunning pendant.
Saunders and Anderson
spend a month a year working
from a makeshift camp on
their one remaining mining claim. The rest
of the year they cut and polish stones and
make silver and gold settings for them.
They sold or swapped the rest of their
claims. In one case, they sold a half interest
in a claim to a man who agreed to grade a
passable road to their worksite.
Once they reach this remote spot, the
backbreaking work may be very profitable,
or it may be simply backbreaking.
"Our experience has been that we move
tons and tons of rock for a little bit of
opals," said Saunders "When we hit the
high grade, it's wonderful because we've
got good quality precious material that
sells for as much as $200 a karat. But if
we don't hit high grade, we've got a lot of
lower-grade material that sells for be­tween
$4 and $12 a karat.
"The difference between high grade and
low grade is determined by the play of
color in the opal," Saunders noted. "It's
the sparkle within the actual opal. The
background color is blue, but in the high
grade, you'll see flashes of color; it's like
a star sapphire. You'll see this star play­ing
across the top of the stone. It's like a
rainbow."
All of the labor has evidently paid off.
Saunders now sells blue opal jewelry all
over the world.
"I guess we're doing okay now," she said.
"At least I was finally able to retire our old
yellow wheelbarrow and buy that small
dozer. That's something!" ~
Author's Note: Opals from Chert Saunders'
mine are available at the Jay­R
Mine Opal Art Gallery,
PO. Box 4951, Huachuca
City, AZ 85616. Call for di­rections,
(520) 456-9202.
Tucson-based Sam Negri has
found plenty of adventure in
southern A1iZ011a but no gemstones.
He also wrote about the San Pedro
and Southwestern Railroad
excursion in this issue.
Phoenix-based]effrey A Scovil
is a longtime mineral collector. He
says the beautiful scene1y helped
him forget the bumpy road leading
to the]ay-R Mine.
Arizona Highways 11
TEXT BY ANN L. PATTERSON
P HOT 0 G RA PHS B Y M 0 N T Y ROE SSE L
CANYON
DECHELLY
he speedometer needle pointed
to eight miles per hour, some­times
dipping to five. It was
Saturday, and we were four­wheeling
the watery arroyos
and rutted roadways of the beautiful and
wild terrain near Chinle on the Navajo
Indian Reservation in the far northeastern
part of the state.
But at a crawl.
Our caravan consisted of 55 Jeeps from
nine states divided into groups of five, each
one with a guide. Destination: Canyon de
Chelly (pronounced "shay").
The organizer of our weekend adventure,
Georgetown, California-based Jeep Jam­boree
USA, ranks its Canyon de Chelly trip
a two to four in difficulty; one meaning
highway-smooth and 10 so rugged the ter­rain
is virtually impassable, even for a jeep.
We were warned, however, that the rating
could jump to eight if it rained hard, caus­ing
the stream running through the canyon
to flow dangerously high and fast.
It stormed the Thursday before we ar­rived.
A deluge came down again Fri­day,
and it was still drizzling that evening
when we checked into our motel in Chinle.
Saturday dawned clear and sunny, but be­cause
of the heavy rainfall, we found our­selves
fording streams with water up to the
floorboards.
Oh, and did I mention quicksand?
Quicksand lurks in the canyon stream­beds,
and nobody seemed to know exactly
where. Scary.
(PRECEDING PANEL, PAGES 12 AND 13)
Our author joins aJeep caravan and
Navajo gUides to explore the beauty,
mystery, and perils of Canyon de Chelly.
(LEFT) One of the Jeeps fords a watery
arroyo, taking care to avoid the qUicksand.
(ABOVE) The caravan heads into the mouth
of the canyon.
(RIGHT) John and Krista Edwards lurch out
of the streambed near White House Ruin.
Leon Skyhorse Thomas, our half-Navajo
and half-Sioux guide, told of cars disappear­ing
into the quagmire without warning. He
said a friend, honored as Guide of the Year
in an elaborate ceremony, watched the very
next day as a car under his guidance sank
beneath the sand. "It's safe to say there are
15 vehicles that have gone down in these
canyons," Thomas said.
As if on cue, a Jeep up ahead stalled
and started to settle. Alert drivers nearby
stopped, tossed over snatch straps, and
managed to pull the trapped car free. Our
guide was unimpressed: "Don't ever stop
your vehicle in the water," he scolded.
Drivers joining a Jeep Jamboree usually
arrive prepared for trouble. They equip
their four-wheel-drive vehicles with tow
hooks, tow straps, extra gas tanks, and
winches. Ready, they hope, to handle any­thing
and get on with having a good time.
On our trip into Canyon de Chelly,
Thomas rode ahead in a vintage World War
II "flat fender." Using a walkie-talkie, he ex­plained
to us about the cliff dwellings and
the cliff writings high above us.
"The Anasazi built their homes on the
north side of the wall - up high - but
they planted down below," he said. "That
way they were away from the flash floods,
and they were safe from any enemies." The
Anasazi, who occupied these canyons from
about A.D. 348 to 1300, grew corn, beans,
squash, and cotton, while bartering with
other tribes for feathers, shells, and, tur­quoise.
Archaeologists believe the Anasazi
were the ancestors of today's Zuni, Hopi,
and Acoma Indians, he added.
Thomas belongs to the Tsegi Guide Asso­ciation,
which means he knows the rocks,
ruins, and relics of Canyon de Chelly inti­mately
"I grew up playing in these ruins.
Of course that was before I knew any bet­ter,"
he said, acknowledging that over the
years he had learned to appreciate the need
to protect the ruins.
Canyon de Chelly National Monument is
shaped roughly like the letter V, with Can­yon
del Muerto (Canyon of the Dead) on
the north and Canyon de Chelly on the
south. Cliffs towering as high as a thousand
feet border the two canyons, about 18 and
27 miles long, respectively.
Thomas observed that the Anasazi vil­lages
could be reached only by lashed-to­gether
ladders and torturous climbing
using toeholds. This fact seemed to amuse
him. "Can you imagine the wife telling the
husband, 'Go down and get me a cup of
water'?" he inquired.
Thomas helped us understand what the
rock writers wrote. Under his tutelage we
saw deer, snakes, lizards, birds, turkeys,
star clusters, and handprints, as well as
sha pes like a reverse swastika, circles,
zigzags, and what are best described as
squiggles. Thomas admitted, though, "A
lot of these petroglyphs I don't even try to
interpret. "
At one ruin, while watching red-tailed
hawks soar beneath the azure skies, we
asked Thomas about the people who live in
the canyons today. He said some 50 Navajo
Arizona Highways 15
CANYON
DECHELLY
families reside there in hogans, half hidden
by stately willow and cottonwood trees, cul­tivating
com and beans, harvesting peaches,
and herding sheep. Most stay in the can­yons
only during summer and leave as win­ter
approaches. A Navajo woman selling
jewelry at the base of Antelope House in
Canyon del Muerto, where we lunched,
later told me, "Oh, I couldn't live down
here all the time: no TV, no electricity."
The Navajos value their privacy and do
(LEFT) Navajos living in the canyon herd
sheep and cultivate vegetables and fruit.
(BELOW) David Bailey, one of the caravans
Navajo guides, talks about some of the
many petroglyphs found in the canyon.
(BOTTOM) Katie Melloy came with her
parents from Farmington, New Mexico, to
explore Canyon de Chelly.
(RIGHT) The Walden family, also from
Farmington, fords some deep water.
not like being photographed without their
permission. "Some of these people are bit­ter
that strangers come into their homes all
the time," Thomas said.
Each year some 760,000-plus people
visit Canyon de Chelly National Monu­ment.
Many of them explore the canyons
hiking the trails on foot; others buy tickets
to tour in what the locals call "shake and
bake" trucks, so named because the huge
panel-side vehicles give passengers a good
jostling on the rough roads and do not pro­vide
shade from the hot summer sun.
Individuals are not permitted to drive
through the canyons on their own. So tak­ing
our four-wheel-drive vehicles on a guid­ed
tour was a real treat. We were able to
penetrate both canyons and with the help
of our knowledgeable guides to interact
with people who share our reverence for
Nature, history, and the Navajo way of life.
Unfortunately the time allotted for ex­ploring
the canyons ran out all too soon. As
the afternoon shadows lengthened, we re­traced
the bumpy, winding roads back to­ward
the entrance.
That's when we ran into a surprise.
Following the stream as it twisted and
turned between the narrow canyon walls,
we suddenly saw our view open up ahead.
We came upon a group of children frolick­ing
in the stream, young Navajo mothers
wading the shallow waters, and teenage
boys galloping bareback across an exposed
spit, their ponies splashing all who ven­tured
close.
At the sight, the caravan slowed. Our
drivers worried they were intruding upon
a private festivity and felt unsure how to
proceed.
Then the young people smiled. Waved.
Soon we, too, were waving and laughing
and joining in the fun. What a joyous con­clusion
to our first Jeep Jamboree in Can­yon
de Chelly National Monument. n
Author's Note: Jeep Jamboree USA oper­ates
20 trips annually to various locations,
with the organizers stressing safety and re­spect
for the environment. Arizona's only
Jeep Jamboree is held in June. For informa­tion,
call toll-free (800) 925-JEEP
For more information on Canyon de
Chelly National Monument, write or call
PO. Box 588, Chinle, AZ 86503; (520)
674-5500. The park is open every day of
the year, except Christmas, May to Septem­ber,
8 A.M. to 6 P.M., and October to April,
8 A.M. to 5 P.M. The Navajo Indian Reser­vation
observes daylight-saving time from
April to October, so it is an hour later there.
Admission is free, but tours of the canyons
must be arranged and accompanied by
park rangers (advance reservations are rec­ommended)
or private, licensed guides.
Photo Workshop: Join photographer Jerry
Sieve and the Friends of Arizona Highways,
the magazine's support auxiliary, on a Pho­to
Workshop trek into Canyon de Chelly,
October 2 to 5. The trip, led by a Navajo
guide, offers the opportunity to explore the
magnificent canyon in a way that few expe­rience
it. Added to that is the chance to
pick up photography tips from an expert.
Jerry Sieve's images appear regularly in the
magazine. For more information, call the
Friends' Travel Office, (602) 271-5904.
Tempe-based Ann L. Patterson, a veteran ofJeep
Jamboree trips in Colorado and New Mexico, was thrilled
to go on one of the outings in her own state.
Monty Roessellives in Kayenta on the Navajo Indian
Reservation. As a youngster, he would ditch school and
float on an inner tube through the Canyon de Chelly
spring run-off He also contributed the photos for the
article in this issue about Navajo storytelling.
Arizona Highways 17
l l V .u U T ( .u
I R D
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B
Y L E a w. B A N K S
L L U S T R A T a N s B y
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a
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H' E
IT STARTED IN JULY, 1880, WHEN AN OPERA HOUSE
MANAGER PAID $600 FOR A PLOT OF LAND AT THE
SOUTHEAST END OF TOMBSTONE'S ALLEN STREET. BILLY
HUTCHINSON'S DREAM WAS TO BUILD A THEATER IN
WHICH RESPECTABLE CITIZENS MIGHT FEEL AT HOME.
What he got was a cramped boxlike adobe structure,
which, from its December 23, 1881, opening, and contin­uing
nightly for the next two years, was packed to the doors
with dusty cowboys, day-wage miners, and assorted drifters,
droolers, and reprobates, each perfectly willing to collapse
into a guzzle-and-holler frenzy at the sight of the winking
chorus girls parading before them.
The Bird Cage Theatre went on to become the South­west's
most famous vaudeville playhouse, and even today,
more than a century later, it is still being written about, por­trayed
on film, and visited by tourists, who can only imag­ine
what went on there in the roaring days.
The truth of the place is often hidden behind its legend,
and over time the two have become interwoven. But it's un­likely
Hutchinson could've imagined tales as colorful as
those told about the Bird Cage.
Several were compiled by author Pat Ryan for the pub­lication
of the Tucson Corral of the Westerners in 1966.
There's the one about Methodist preacher ].E. McCann,
Arizona Highways 19
20 September 1996
who insisted on climbing onto the theater
stage one fine Sunday morning to bellow
his sermon. He found his audience atten­tive
to the point when the men assembled
before him suggested the reverend perform
a little dance. He refused.
After a second request produced the same
response, a cowboy drew his pistol and shot
off McCann's boot heel. At that he danced
like a black-coated fool, and shortly there­after
caught the first buggy headed east.
Another story comes from old-time ma­gician
Charley Andress, who recounted a
performance of Uncle Toms Cabin that he
witnessed.
'Just as Eliza was crossing the icy river in
that play," reported The Arizona Daily Star
in May of 1930, "a drunken cowboy in the
audience became excited and shot the
bloodhound that was pursuing her.
"After something of a fight the cowboy
was lodged in jail and the show continued
minus one good hound .... The cowboy
was somewhat the worse for his beating
when he sobered up, but was penitent and
shed tears over the dead dog, offering
money and his pony in recompense."
From its first days, the Bird Cage was a
sensation. The January 4, 1882, Tombstone
Epitaph commented that it was "fast becom­one
of the most popular resorts of the
thanks to its modern conveniences,
as the gas-fired jets that bathed the
in light.
Hutchinson's only misstep was "ladies
" It lasted one evening because not a
female showed up. That failure rein­the
notion that respectability meant
bankruptcy, so Billy kept on giving his au­diences
what they wanted.
as an old handbill from the 1880s
makes clear, it wasn't Shakespeare: "Gro­tesque
Dancing, Leg Mania and Contortion
Feats in which they [the Healey Brothers]
stand positively alone."
Then there was Mrs. De Granville, "the
woman with the iron jaw." Her gift was
picking up heavy objects in her teeth. And
jig dancer Pearl Ardine, who could "pick
up money thrown her and place the same
in her stocking without losing a step."
But the most popular by far were the
variety acts and rowdy leg shows that
kept the crowd stomping, spitting, and
spending. In his book Tombstone: An Iliad
of the Southwest, Walter Noble Burns cap­tured
the scene in this passage:
"Seated on wooden benches, the au­dience
guzzled whiskey and beer and
peered through a fog of tobacco smoke at
vaudeville performers cutting their capers
in the glare of kerosene-lamp footlights.
Beautiful painted ladies in scanty costumes
sang touching ballads of home and mother
on the stage and then hurried to the boxes
where, by their voluptuous charms and
soft graces, they swelled the receipts of the
downstairs bar and received a rake-off on
every bottle of beer they induced their ad­mirers
to buy.
"When the performance ended, the
benches were moved against the walls to
clear the floor, and the crowd reeled in the
drunken dances until the sun peeped over
the Dragoons."
The gullibles lined up early to have their
pockets turned inside out. Admission was
50 cents. Day-wagers from the Lucky Cuss
and other mines took seats on the bench­es,
while the bosses and their big hats re­paired
to the balcony boxes.
The shows got under way about 9 P.M.
William Hattich, former editor of The
Tombstone Prospector, said patrons often
showered the stage with coins when "a
vivacious actress scored a popular wave
of approval."
In correspondence with author Pat Ryan
some 80 years after the theater's heyday,
Hattich also said that shootings and may­hem
presented only occasional problems
for management. A far bigger headache
was replacing the show girls who quit to
marry lonesome pioneers.
But it was "honeymooning" not marriage
that was on the minds of those cavorting in
the curtain-shrouded cribs. Each box sat
six men, and some suggested the cramp­ing
resembled that of a bird cage, hence
'the name.
Another version, published in The Ari­zona
Star on August 18, 1882, has it that
the name came about because the boxes
had so many "doves" in them.
Those doves - soiled though they might
have been - were one way Hutchinson
kept his customers interested. He also
wasn't above pulling a few stunts.
One night, in response to a drunk who
was heckling the performers from his box,
Hutchinson marched onto the stage and
pleaded for quiet. But that threw the heck­ler
into an even louder fury.
With reluctance, Hutchinson made a
show of ordering his bouncers to eject the
man. The audience stared saucer-eyed as
bouncers surrounded his box. Then came
shouting, the sound of a tremendous fight,
and finally the crack of a pistol.
Spectators couldn't believe their eyes
when the heckler's body came sailing out
of the box and onto the stage. But the body
landed softly - it was a dummy stuffed
with straw.
The Bird Cage's wild reputation proba­bly
helped with its bookings. Whenever
the stage rolled into town carrying new
performers, Tombstone gathered to inspect
the talent.
Famed comedian Eddie Foy played a
two-week hitch there in 1882. He later de­scribed
the theater as a coffin, because of its
shape, but he paid the place a compliment
by saying he wasn't shot at or hit with cab­bage
there.
Pat Ryan wrote that comedienne Nola
Forrest graced the place in 1883, but it was
her off-stage act that keeps her in memory.
It seems that the beautiful- but married
- Nola took up with a bookkeeper named
J.P. Wells and so turned his head
that he began embezzling cash
from his employer to keep his
love in jewels. Alas, this did not
keep her at his side, and Wells
did not profit from the lesson.
After Nola reconciled with her
husband, Wells took up with "an­other
well-known woman of this
burg, who completed the finan­cial
wreck begun by Nola." Ryan
wrote that Wells eventually left
town a broken man, and in June
of 1886 was reported drowned
in the Gila River.
Performer Lizzie Mitchell is re­membered
because of her unfor­tunate
decision, while suffering
from what The Prospector called
violent pains, to swallow a dose
of morphine.
"Not being an expert in phar­macy,"
the paper reported, "Lizzie
got an overdose, and but for
friends who compelled her to
walk until five o'clock this morning, she
would now be an angel."
Professor Ricardo, known as a wonder of
wonders in feats of legerdemain, "Hindoo"
juggling, light and heavy balancing, and
sword swallowing, met a bad fate, too.
Two weeks after doing his act, it was dis­covered
that the good professor was actu­ally
Edmund Don Lober, a deserter from
Troop D, 4th Cavalry, at Fort Huachuca. He
was given a bed at the town jail.
But even poor Edmund was better off
than the girl standing on the Bird Cage
stage waiting for a sharpshooter to blast
an apple off her dome. In the wings stood
Pat Holland, Tombstone's newly elected
coroner, who thought the shooter was tak­ing
far too much time squinting down the
B I R DCA GET H EAT R E
barrel, so he grabbed the weapon and
blazed away.
Holland assumed the weapon was load­ed
only with wadded-up paper, according
to a report in The Territorial Enterprise of
Virginia City, Nevada. But he soon learned
that someone had charged the gun with
buckshot.
"Pat not only knocked the apple all to
pieces," said The Enterprise, "but a bunch
of hair, half as big as a man's fist, was car­ried
across the stage and struck the oppo­site
wall."
Hutchinson's ownership of the Bird Cage
ended in 1883. The theater languished for
three years until Joe Bignon, known as "the
irrepressible showman," took over and
used his considerable skills to resurrect it.
"It was a poor day if we didn't take in
more than $2,500," boasted Bignon, who
had been a circus and minstrel performer
and was best known for a dance he did
while wearing a monkey outfit.
In the finale, he hooked his monkey tail
over a wire and swung above his audience.
One time his tail broke, depositing him on
the lap of a spectator. Refusing to let the
incident force him out of character, he
jumped up and scratched his head like a
monkey and bounded up behind the cur­tain
out of sight.
buying the Bird Cage in January,
1886, Bignon renamed it the Elite and went
to work doing whatever it took to keep the
acts coming and the customers paying.
He even hired two men to conduct a
six-hour walking match on a specially con­structed
track. It was a big deal, and bets
were taken. "The money is up, in the
hands of one of our responsible citizens,"
one paper reported, "and the parties mean
business."
So did Joe Bignon's beloved wife, Minnie
Branscombe, a pianist, singer, ballet dancer,
and sometime hooker. When Minnie and
Joe performed together, he billed her as
"Big Minnie, six-feet-tall and 230 pounds
of loveliness in pink tights."
But drunks who caused a row in her
husband's business quickly learned that
Minnie was no mere dainty. She would
wrap her arm around a troublemaker's
neck and toss him into the street.
The decline of the mines meant the same
for the theater. Even Bignon's
torchlight publicity parades down
Allen Street couldn't arouse
enough interest to keep the show
going. About 1892 he sold the
building and left Tombstone for
the nearby gold town of Pearce,
where he died in 1925.
Other owners made revival ef­forts,
but they failed as well, and
the great theater stayed silent
for almost 30 years. Its doors
opened again for the first Hell­dorado
celebration in 1929. Five
years later, it reopened as the
Bird Cage Coffee Shoppe, then it
became a souvenir stand. Today
it's a popular tourist attraction.
But none of its reincarnations
could erase what the old stage
had been, or silence the "birds
in gilded cages" who sang there
over so many nights, and still
do, if only in legend. n
Additional Reading: To find out
more about Tombstone and the surrounding
area, we recommend Tucson to Tombstone, a
guidebook by Tom Dollar. The full-color 96-
page softcover book is jam-packed with sto­ries
and legends of the region and takes you
over its trails from the desert floor to ripar­ian
canyons and alpine forests atop majestic
mountains. Also included are maps and
travel tips. The book costs $12.95 plus ship­ping
and handling. To order, telephone toll­free
(800) 543-5432􁪽􋵩 in the Phoenix area or
outside the U.s., call (602) 258-1000.
Leo W Banks always visits the Bird Cage Theatre when
he is in Tombstone. He lives in Tucson.
As a youngster, Jacksonville Beach, Florida-based Russ
Wilson traveled to the West Coast in summer via
Tombstone in a '69 Pontiac with no Stilt
he says, Tombstone was "really cool.
21
SPHINX
L
IN HIS YOUTH, MOTH FANCIER NOEL MCFARLAND OFTEN PROWLED AFTER DARK
OUTSIDE SALOONS IN SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA, HIS HOMETOWN. HAVING THOR...
OUGHLY RECONNOITERED THE NEIGHBORHOOD, HE AND HIS MOTH-COLLECTING
buddies knew exactly where all
the best neon tavern signs were
- the ones fatally attractive to
moths on the wing.
"Pabst Blue Ribbon signs were
the best," McFarland says. "Re­member
that sign? The bluish one?
That's at the blue-purple end of
the spectrum, and it really gets
'em. All the moth people knew
where the Pabst Blue Ribbon signs
were, and at night they'd lurk
around them catching moths."
N ow, almost 50 years later,
McFarland sits at a desk in his
study-bunkhouse-hideout in a
canyon in the Huachuca Moun­tain
foothills. To say he's still a
MOTHS AND
"moth person" understates his
zeal. Moths are his everlasting
passion. He's here because south­eastern
Arizona's cool, wet can­yons
rank with the world's best
places to find moths - or birds,
or reptiles, or butterflies, or even
wild orchids.
A borderline moth ignoramus
myself, I sought out McFarland
for answers to some idle questions
I had pondered at one time or
another. What's the difference
between a moth and a butterfly?
Why do moths fly into flames and
hot light bulbs, a practice that
usually ends in slow incineration?
Where do they go in daytime?
FATAL ATTRACTIONS
A P 0 RTF 0 L o BY MAR T yeO R 0 A NO
T EXT BY TOM DOL LA R
E U M 0 R P H A T Y P H 0 N
(LEFT) Some of the moths that appear in daylight,
such as this Eumorpha typhon, camouflage themselves expertly
as leaf litter, lichens, bark, and even flower petals.
_j
Arizona Highways 23
SPHINX MOTHS AND fATAL ATTRACTIONS
McFarland hands me a well­thumbed
copy of Arizona Highways.
The logo is old-fashioned, the pa­per
pulpy. On the cover, a grainy
color photo is identified as Hamp­ton's
painted tiger-moth. April,
1951, is the date; price, 35 cents.
"Lloyd Martin, who wrote that
cover story, was my mentor,"
McFarland explains. "He was cu­rator
of entomology at the Los
Angeles Museum of Natural His­tory,
and he gave up his Saturdays
to work with kid collectors. I was
one of those kids."
Though we tend to think of
moths as drab nighttime cousins
of butterflies, the relationship is
really the other way around. The
order Lepidoptera, which includes
both, is composed mostly of
moths. Thus for every species of
butterfly found in southeastern
Arizona, there may be up to 15
species of moths.
The differences? By and large, if
it looks like a butterfly, and it's fly­ing
in full daylight, it is a butterfly;
after dark, it's a moth. There are
exceptions. Some sphinx moths,
for example, often flit from blos­som
to blossom in full daylight or
at dusk; larger ones are sometimes
mistaken for hummingbirds, so
rapid are their wing beats.
Other differences: butterflies'
antennae are clubbed at the end;
moths' antennae are either thread­like
or feathery. Most butterflies
are quite colorful, moths drab;
but some moths, tiger moths no­tably,
are as brightly colored as
any butterfly. Butterflies, gener­ally,
are slender, moths thick­bodied;
but here again, certain
moths are quite streamlined.
Geometrid moths, named for the
looping "land measuring" mo­tion
of their inch-worm larvae,
are skinny fast fliers.
MAN Due, A FLO RES TAN
(RIGHT) The Manduca jlorestan, or sphinx moth, is fond of daylight.
But a predator would have difficulty spotting this one, which has taken
on the appearance of the granite rock on which it rests.
L
24 September 1996
_j
SPHINX MOTHS AND FATAL ATTRACTIONS
The best way to observe moths
is to install a black light (a long­wave
ultraviolet light) against a
light-colored backdrop. On dark
nights, moths will home in on the
light almost immediately. "Home
in" is misleading; actually moths
are trapped by light.
We've long known that moths
are powerfully drawn to light,·es­pecially
the ultraviolet band. One
widely accepted theory holds that
moths navigate by fixing upon
dim sources of natural light and
are disoriented by bright artificial
light. Spiraling ever closer to its
source, they become hopelessly
lost. Turn out the light, and you
set them free.
Collecting moths by black-light­ing
is a cinch, but to learn some­thing
about their life histories -
where they lay eggs, what they eat
as larvae, how long they live as
pupae - a good moth collector
must find them by day, no easy
task. Moths, you see, survive in
daylight by pretending to be some­thing
else: a leaf, sand, ground lit­ter,
or even charred wood.
Without this ability to conceal
themselves, most moths would
be quickly seen and snapped up
by birds. If aforaging bird en­counters
a white spatter that re­sembles
its own fecal droppings,
however, its bird brain simply
doesn't register that the spatter
could be fake. Of course if the
droppings should move, the bird
spots the deception and quickly
gobbles up the moth.
Other moths camouflage them­selves
as lichens, bark, dead leaves,
or flower petals. lichen-mimick­ing
moths need not necessarily
come to rest on lichen-encrusted
rocks. Any surface on which
lichens are apt to grow is good
Text continued on page 30
M I RAe A VIR A B R ILL I A N S
(LEFT) Employing its expertise in disguise, a Miracavira brillians is almost
indistinguishable from the lichen on a rock. To fool predators, the moth
needn't find a patch of lichen, only a surface on which it might be found.
L _j
Arizona Highways 27
SPHINX MOTHS AND FATAL ATTRACTIONS
MEL I POT ISS P
A piece oj petrified wood provides a saJe haven
Jor a Melipotis SF This is one oj many species oj Melipotis
Jound in the Southwest. They are closely related
to the more colorful underwing moths.
SPHINX MOTHS AND FATAL ATTRACTIONS
Continued from page 27
enough to trick most predators.
Not all moths use cryptic col­oring
to fake out predators. Tiger
moths, for example, though often
brilliantly colored, are avoided
by birds. The reason? They either
taste bad or are poisonous.
Some of the larger silk moths
have eyespots on their wings that
scare off smaller birds. Big birds
aren't much fooled, though. Jays
and thrashers will wolf down
moths size, owl eyes and all.
there are moths with
colored underwings.
At rest on a tree trunk, one of
these moths folds and covers its
underwings, becoming one with
the bark. But if frightened by the
snap of a twig or a bird landing
nearby, it flashes those under­wings
and flies off, flaunting its
colors. As it alights on a nearby
tree trunk it folds its sparkling
wings, becoming instantly invis­ible.
By the time the astonished
bird recovers, it's too late. The
moth has become bark again.
As I prepare to leave, McFarland
turns again to the cover photo of
that tattered 1951 issue of Arizona
Highways. "See that mouse-gray
and rosy-pink triangle?" he says,
pointing to the tiger moth photo.
"It resembles a pattern woven
into a lot of older Navajo rugs
that my father used to collect.
That moth occurs throughout the
Four Corners area; it's one that
every Navajo would have seen."
He looks up. I return his smile.
We like it, the idea of a Navajo
weaver copying a moth design.
Art imitating Nature. H
Marty Cordano lives in Bisbee and is a
former wildlife biologist for the Bureau of
Land Management.
Inspired by his visit with Noel McFarland,
Tucson-based Tom Dollar recently bought a
I5-watt black light.
1ST A R
(RIGHT) The common sphinx moth is readily seen
in southeastern Arizona. It flies mid-June to mid-September,
peaking during the July-August monsoons.
L
30 September 1996
_j
N A v A J o c u l T u R E
STORIES GRANDMOTHER TOLD
Severaltimes out in Navajo country,
people had told me fragments of
traditional tales, the sort you read
in books, about Coyote, Monster Slayer,
and Changing Woman. But I'd never at­tended
a family storytelling session, that
quiet time when a Navajo grandmother sits
in her hogan and passes on cultural lore to
her grandchildren.
Then one morning the telephone rang. It
was a Navajo acquaintance inviting me to
a storytelling session with his aunt, a med­icine
woman in her 70s.
''I'd love to come," I said. "What kind of
stories do you think she'll tell7"
He hesitated. It was the sort of pause
that, I've learned, means I'm seeing some­thing
one way, and the Navajo I'm talking
to is seeing it another.
"My aunt said it's okay for you to be
there," he answered. "But I just want you to
know, I'm really glad it's not wintertime
anymore."
It was early February, but by the
Navajo calendar, spring had already
arrived. That happened when thun­der
awakened from its winter sleep
and rolled across the sky
"Winterstories are too sacred," he
continued. "People write about
Coyote, Monster Slayer, and all the
others. But it's not good. It takes
something from the Navajos."
I assured him I didn't want to do
that, and he said he'd call when his
aunt was ready
A week went by Then two. Then three.
I called him.
"Not yet," he said. "Soon."
Finally one morning in April, I headed
north on u.S. 191 through the heart of
Navajo country The highway rose and fell
with the juniper-covered hills. It dropped
into a broad plain, passed rust-colored clay
erosions and hidden canyons, then wound
north through red sandstone. A stark black
mesa appeared in the west, disappeared
behind hills, reappeared.
South of Round Rock, an unmarked road
made a steep tum down from the highway
I crept along the hardpan until the track
twisted upward and arrived at a cluster of
buildings. An eight-sided plywood hogan,
an outhouse, aramada, and a pen for sheep
and goats surrounded a small frame house
which had no electricity or running water.
The animals bleated. Invisible behind the
pen's high wooden walls, they marked the
wind with a thick odor.
A girl who looked about 14 but turned
out to be 11 was showing her sister,
three, how to use a plastic sling­shot.
Other children played catch
and climbed a horse trailer as if it
were a jungle gym.
"Time for storytelling," their fa­ther,
and the man who had invited
me there, called out. They disap­peared
into the hogan.
He pointed westward toward
the mesa I'd glimpsed from the
highway Columns of falling snow
TEXT BY SUSAN HAZEN-HAMMOND
PHOTOGRAPHS BY MONTY ROESSEL
connected the Earth to the sky. "That's the
sacred Black Mesa. It's a female mountain.
And that"- a red and black mountain to
the east - "is the sacred Lukachukai. It's
male. On the other side, they call it the
Chuskas."
"What makes them male and female?" I
asked.
He hesitated. "They're alive, just like us."
His aunt was busy, he said. His mother
would tell the stories.
Inside the hogan, the only light came
from a translucent window in the door and
the smoke hole, an open space about two
feet square at the center of the ceiling. Near
the walls, sheepskins lay across the sand
floor, leaving an inner circle of sand. A row
of 10 corncobs strung together with string
like a miniature ladder hung near a bag of
loose cobs on the unplaned boards by the
door. Sheets covered other walls, slowing
the migration of sand. The children sat
quietly near the door with their mother.
The storyteller, a woman with graying
hair and dark, solemn eyes, looked up but
did not rise. A medicine woman herself,
she had spent the past week presiding over
a healing ceremony in this hogan.
Since my last visit to the reservation, I had
learned more about Navajo etiquette. An
outsider, coming in, owes a gift, something
practical, not fancy. I'd selected a smoked
ham that didn't need refrigeration. I hand­ed
it to her.
She patted the ham in acknowledge­ment,
then turned to her son. "Go see your
mother. She's shearing sheep."
"Isn't this your mother?" l whispered,
confused.
"That's how we talk in Navajo. My
mother's sisters are my mothers, too." He
said something in Navajo, and his mother
laughed.
When he returned, his mother, now in
the role of the storyteller, moved to the
hogan's place of honor, the wall opposite
the door. The children came forward and
sprawled on sheepskins in front of her. I
settled a little way back, on the bare floor
besfde the stove.
The storyteller's son lifted the corn lad­der
and the sack of cobs from the wall and
took them to her.
"Navajo stories don't have a beginning,
a middle, and an end," he whispered to me.
"They're a circle, like a hogan, Like the Earth,
with a lot of different things inside."
The storyteller adjusted her dark cotton
34 September 1996
skirt around her. Another skirt, worn for
warmth, peeked out beneath it.
She motioned toward the sheepskins,
and her turquoise and silver bracelets
glowed against her purple velveteen blouse.
"That's where we slept last night, my sister
and me," she told the children. She spoke
in a musical voice that turned English into
a tonal language like Navajo. Her glottal
stops added a staccato beat. "lt used to be,
when I was growing up, we lived in hogans
'Respect the corn.
You can't just
pick the
perfect one.
You have to pick
'
ever~ p1ece .
You have to
pick even the
smallest piece.
Even the ugliest.'
all the time. just one room, like this, with
a dirt floor. No water No electricity. Every­one
sleeping in the same room. Everybody
talking Navajo."
One child still held a baseball mitt, an­other
a baseball, a third a soft drink, but
their faces had turned earnest with atten­tion
and expectation.
'This morning a Navajo woman from
Scottsdale came to me in this hogan. She is
from Black Mesa, the most traditional place
of all, but her mother, her grandmother,
they didn't teach her right. She said, 'I'm
having trouble with my job. 1 want you to
pray for me. But I don't know anything
about Navajo ways.' "
The storyteller looked each child in the
eye. "That's why you have to know your
culture. You have to say, 'NaiL [Grand­mother],
tell me the story about corn. Nali,
tell me the story about mountains. Nali, tell
me the story about rocks.' These are pow­erful
things. These are to protect you."
The wind rattled the top of the stovepipe
against the guy wires that held it in place in
the center of the smoke hole.
The storyteller continued, "It's spring­time.
So today we're going to have a story
about the corn, like the stories my mother
told when I was a little girl. Okay?"
The children looked at her.
"Say Aoo'," their father prodded.
"Aoo'. Aoo'. Aoo'. Aoo'. Aoo'." Five soft
voices said "yes" in Navajo.
"What does April mean in Navajo?" their
grandmother asked.
"Spring," said one of the youngsters.
"Daan-ch'il," she replied. She held her
hands up, palms together, then opened them,
palms outward. "When something opens
like this, we call it Daan-ch'il. That's what
spring is, the time when the plants open."
The children repeated the Navajo word.
Then she said, "There are plants outside.
Haza'aleeh, like parsley. And there are other
plants called wild onions. You take the coat
off. There's another coat inside. You take
that coat off, there's another coat inside.
Navajos tease each other. They say, 'Don't
be like onions, wearing too many coats.' "
The storyteller led the children outside.
Near the blue water barrel beside the ho­gan,
she stooped and pulled a flat, lacy
plant from the sand. Her skirts grazed the
Earth. "Haza'aleeh," she said. "Who plants
it? We don't. Mother Nature does. The first
plants you see in the springtime, you bless
yourself with them. How many Navajos do
that today?"
The children followed her back into the
hogan. 'This is our own Navajo food, native
food," she said, holding the haza'aleeh out
for them to see. "My sister and l were gath­ering
some the other day. We put it in the
ashes. Then we dry it. Then we go like this."
Her fingers made a crumbling motion.
"Then we roast the corn and grind it
with a grinding stone, and then we cook
the cornmeal with haza'aleeh in it. Then we
serve it to kids."
The children watched their grandmother
as intently as if she were an adventure movie.
Only the three year old looked around.
The storyteller picked up the ladder of
corn. "What makes a Navajo woman to be
proud and happy is to see her corn grow­ing,"
she said . "My sister can't live without
her cornfield. Today nobody talks about
this kind of stuff to young kids like you.
You got to understand these things. These
plants. Why we have cornfield. Why plants
grow. What Mother Nature has for you."
She stopped for a moment, then said
forcefully, "You are plants. You are nanise',
meaning something grow. You grow. You're
just like those plants."
Robin, the three year
old, picked up handfuls
of sand and tossed them
into the air. The others ig­nored
her.
"This is what your great­great
cheii [grandfather]
and your great-great mili
do," the storyteller con­tinued.
"They fix the field.
Your great-great cheii plant­ed
the com, four seeds at a
time, and your great-great
nali walked behind him
and patted the corn in
place with her feet."
She closed her eyes. "It
takes all day. You get thirsty.
Keep on. Keep on going.
Keep on going. Can't stop
to eat or drink until the
field is all p lamed."
away. Corns have feelings just like you."
The storyteller paused. Her son knelt
beside the homemade barrel stove and
shoved in another stick of wood. The fra­grance
of burning cedar filled the hogan.
Softly the storyteller began, "Once upon
a time, this man picked a perfect ear of
com. The others in the field weren't so per­fect.
He said, This one is no good. That
one is no good.' So he left all the others.
But as he left, he heard someone crying."
her Kinaalda, a ceremony honoring her
transition to womanhood.
"The plants talk to you, but you don't
know it," she said. "The plants won't say
Jaclyn.' They won't say 'Robin.' They use
your spirit name, your real name. Will say,
'There's so and so walking.' When you
grow up and think you're alone, you're not
alone. The plants say, 'There goes my
grandson. There goes my kids.'
"That's why your nali always has corn
around. That's why you
don't ever pass corn. You
pick it. You eat it. You put
it on yourself. You take it
home and plant it. The
corn is Holy People."
She folded her hands.
"Okay, you understand?"
Five soft voices said,
"Whatever little I told
you right here gets into
your spirit, gets into your
thoughts. You are all plants.
You are all growing."
She stopped talking,
and the children left.
She looked at the chil­dren.
"I think that's what
my mom used to say. l
don't remember."
(PRECEDING PANEL, PAGE 33) Gathered for a time of traditional storytelling,
Marie jim soothes her granddaughter, Harrisatta Sandoval,
For the first time, the
storyteller looked my way.
"Everybody says, 'Oh, that's
just mythology,' " she said.
"But it is not mythology.
These stories come from
the Holy People. They're
sacred."
I nodded. "Is it all right
to write the names of the
Holy People?"
who has tangled with a sharp yucca.
She formed her hands
into a square. "The Navajo
people plant two kinds of
(ABOVE) Siblings Tiffany, Heath, and Harrisatta listen
to one of their grandmother's stories.
cornfields. One is square
kind. That's male. One is round kind.
That's female. You are male and female.
White corn, that's boys and men. Yellow
corn, that's female."
Holding up the cobs, she taught the chil­dren
the Navajo words for white com, yel­low
corn, blue corn, and red corn.
"This red corn, this naadd.'alchii, is very
important. You always have to plant four
kernels of naada'alchii in each field. It
brings the rain to the cornfield. That's the
way l was taught."
The storyteller ran her hand gently
along a colored cob of corn. "Corn is the
Holy People. That's why you don't laugh
at corn. That's why you don't throw com
I leaned forward. This was the son of an­cient
tale I'd been hoping for.
"The man returned to the field and found
that the corns were sitting there crying. 'No
one wants us. We're ugly,' they said.
"So the man picked one. Then another.
He talked to them. He picked them all,
every one.
'That's how the Holy People said to the
Navajo, 'Respect the corn.' You can't just
pick the perfect one. You have to pick every
piece. You have to pick even the smallest
piece. Even the ugliest. lt was the Holy
People who told them to pick all the corn."
The storyteller smiled at her oldest grand­child,
jaclyn, 11, who had just celebrated
She shook her head.
"No.,
"So the story came from
the Holy People, but the corn is the Holy
People, too?"
She nodded. "All the plants are Holy
People."
The storyteller's son hung the ladder of
corn on the wall. The storyteller dozed on
the sheepskins. A few grains of reddish
sand rained in through the smoke hole. The
children played outside the hogan's door.
The storyteller stood up. It was time
for me to go. ~
Santa Fe, New Mexico-based Susan Hazen-Hammond
is the author of four books and numerous articles about
the Soulhwesl
Monty Roessel also conuibuted tlte photographs for the
s!O'Y in this issue about jeep !Owing at Canyon de Chelly.
Arizona Highways 35
THIS ROUNDUP
WAS RE.ALLY
FOR THE BIRDS -
OR HOW CATTLEMAN
HENRY C. HOOKER
LEARNED
•
N THE WILD WEST OF THE 1860S, TURKEYS WERE COMMONLY SHOT, STUFFED, AND
roasted around holiday time. But it took an
Arizona legend like Henry C. Hooker to
herd them like cattle and march them over
a mountain range.
It all started in the California goldfields
in 1866, before Hooker started his widely
known Sierra Bonita Ranch in Arizona. At
34 years of age, Hooker felt pleased with
his life. He'd been prospecting for almost
13 years and had gotten over his strike-it­rich
dream. He'd married, fathered three
children, and was slowly making- his for­tune
the smart way: selling mining equip-ment
to gold-struck fools. He would have
settled permanently in the goldfields of
Hangtown except a fire destroyed his house,
his store, and his entire stock of goods.
In one day his fortune was gone.
Lesser men would have picked up a
gold pan and gone back to dreaming. But
not Hooker. He knew another fortune
could be made.
TEXT BY JANET TRONSTAD
ILLUSTRATION BY
H.OWARD POST
36 September 1996
That was when he thought of turkeys.
Hooker knew miners would pay an ex­orbitant
amount of money for anything
edible, and although prices were high in
California, they were even higher in the
new mining town of Carson City, Nevada.
Surely the miners in Carson City would
welcome the smell of roasting turkeys.
Once Hooker made up his mind, he got
busy. He borrowed some money and, at
$1.50 per bird, bought 500 plump turkeys
from nearby ranchers. He then bought sev­eral
sheepdogs to help herd the turkeys.
When word of Hooker's scheme got
around Hangtown, the miners laughed.
They said the fire had driven Hooker plumb
crazy. What kind of fool would try to drive
a herd of turkeys over the high Sierras?
Only a fool like Hooker.
When he started out, Hooker didn't
know much about turkeys. By the time
he'd reached the base of the Sierras, he was
beginning to learn.
As he would have told you, turkeys aren't
known for their brains. Even Benjamin
Franklin, who championed the birds, had
to admit they "were a little vain and silly."
Others were less kind, pointing out that
turkeys had been known to stand in a pour­ing
rain, looking up at the sky with their
mouths open - apparently fascinated -
for such a long time that they drowned.
And that other turkeys, if they came upon
the dead body of a fellow bird, might fluster
themselves into such a panic they would die
of fright right then and there.
Needless to say, turkeys weren't the best
traveling companions. They spooked easily
and had little survival sense. Still, Hooker
pressed on. His turkeys learned to wake
with the dawn and grab an insect or two on
the march.
By the time Hooker reached the farside
of the Sierras, he felt satisfied with himself.
Complacent, even. Perhaps that's why he
didn't scout ahead and see that the dogs
were herding the turkeys straight toward
a steep cliff. Sheep, with a little dog en­couragement,
would have had no problem
climbing down the cliff. But not turkeys.
Hooker frantically called his dogs back. It
was too late. The dogs worried the turkeys
right off the cliff.
There go my turkeys, Hooker thought,
knowing a fall from the cliff would surely
kill the silly birds.
But looking over the cliff edge, he saw
his flock alive and well at the bottom. The
ruffled turkeys weren't hurt, but they were
certainly surprised - almost as surprised
as he was. It was probably the only time
these farm-fat birds had ever spread their
wings. They hadn't even known they could
fly until they were forced off that cliff.
It was a proud Hooker who drove his
herd of turkeys into Carson City. The min­ers
were overjoyed to see such an abun­dance
of Thanksgiving meat and happily
paid $5 apiece for the birds.
Hooker cleared more than $1,500, enough
money to give him and his family a new
start. Instead of rebuilding in California, he
moved his family to Arizona.
Hooker never forgot his experiences
with the turkeys, but he never again
drove a flock of them over a mountain
range like he did in 1866. Instead he
turned his attention to purebred horses
and prize herds of Hereford, Durham,
and shorthorn cattle. Hooker's Arizona
ranch, the Sierra Bonita, was a popular
stopover guests of all descriptions. Of
course, when his company sat down at
the table, it was usually beef, not turkey,
that was on their plates. H
During her childhood, Pasadena, California-based
Janet Tronstad got acquainted with turkeys on her
grandmother's farm, so she had a lot of sympathy for
Henry Hooker.
Howard Post lives in Mesa, but he grew up on a ranch
outside Tucson, where they raised horses and cattle but
not turkeys.
Arizona Highways 37
SAN PEDRO AND SOUTHWESTERN RAILROAD
ohn Rose and I stood in
the bar car of the San
Pedro and Southwestern
Railroad's excursion train
as it rolled through the
high desert between the
Whetstone and Dragoon
mountains. Weekdays Rose
is a real estate developer in
Sierra Vista; weekends he puts
on a striped railroader's cap and becomes
the train's "talk boy," a raconteur who brings
the landscape to life with an animated nar­rative
on the history and lore of southeast­ern
Arizona.
For Rose the 27-mile journey from Ben­son
to Charleston, an unpopulated spot
near Tombstone, unfolds like a movie reel.
As the nine-car train rolls through the land­scape,
he sees not only mesquite bushes
and cottonwoods and adobe ruins but also
a cast of characters who walked through
the San Pedro Valley and into the pages of
legend and history
"To understand the American identity,"
Rose said with enthusiasm, "you have to
come to the West; and to understand the
West, you have to come to this valley" As
we passed the west side of the Dragoon
Mountains, a natural stronghold where war­ring
Apaches once took refuge, he added:
"If you were to go anywhere on Earth
and the people knew the name of only one
Native American, it would be Geronimo;
and if they the name of one Old West
lawman, it be Wyatt Earp. If they
knew one it would be the 30-sec-ond
O.K. If they knew of
only one West gambler, it would be
Doc Holliday, the dentist killer. If
they knew the name of one Old West town,
it would be Tombstone."
The excursion train, which started up in
the spring of 1994, makes a smooth four­hour
jaunt through the countryside that for
several years was the stomping ground of
many of the West's most famous good and
bad guys, and Rose talks about them as
though they were all personal acquaintances.
Minutes after leaving the railroad's small
depot and gift shop at Benson, Rose pointed
out the Whetstone Mountains to the west,
and suddenly the reel was rolling again.
In those mountains, he told some 200
passengers over the public address system,
Wyatt Earp killed the notorious bandit Curly
Bill Brocius. The execution of Brocius, he
said, was Earp's way of avenging the assas­sination
of his brother Morgan Earp, who
had been shot in the back while playing
pool at Robert Hatch's saloon and billiard
parlor in Tombstone. That wasn't what
Wyatt contended, however. He said Curly
40 September 1996
Bill was a stagecoach robber, and he had a
warrant for his arrest. And when he found
him, the outlaw and his companions
opened fire. There are at least four versions
of what happened in that gunfight some­where
between the Whetstone and Mustang
mountains, and, 100 years after the fact,
Rose's version is as good as anyone else's.
Some 20 miles south of the place where
the gunfight reportedly occurred, we ap­proached
Charleston, once a town far
more dangerous than Tombstone, and Rose
brought his Earp-Brocius story full circle.
After Curly Bill was killed, he said, his body
was taken to Charleston and buried in a se­cret
grave, which has never been found.
No one knows for sure where Curly Bill
ended up, but if it was at Charleston, at
least his final resting place is scenic. In fall
the giant cottonwood trees at that bend in
the river blaze yellow and orange. The spot
is so special that in 1986 it was set aside
as part of a National Riparian Conservation
Area, a giant Nature preserve that extends
along the river from the vicinity of St. David
to the Mexican border.
A couple of years ago, The Nature Con­servancy,
a private conservation organiza­tion,
designated the San Pedro River area as
one of the "Last Great Places" in the West­ern
Hemisphere. (See Arizona Highways,
May '96.) It's an area rich in wildlife, and
throughout our afternoon journey Rose ad­vised
passengers to watch for mule and
white-tailed deer and javelinas in the brush
along the tracks. The javelina "looks like a
pig on steroids," Rose said in one of his
thumbnail summaries.
The San Pedro and Southwestern runs
parallel to the river the full distance from
Benson to Charleston, though the stream
sometimes hides behind hills and dense
vegetation.
Like the Santa Cruz River that passes
(PRECEDING PANEL, PAGES 38 AND 39) Scenery and
frontier history lure passengers aboard the train for the
54-mile round-trip excursion along the San Pedro River
between Benson and Charleston.
(TOP) Towering cottonwoods turned golden in early
autumn make "The Narrows" a visual highlight of the day.
(ABOVE) Real estate development occupies john Rose
weekdays, but on weekends, he's the trip's lively narrator.
(RIGHT)just before The Narrows, the train approaches
a river crossing obscured by vegetation.
Arizona Highways 41
42 September 1996
(TOP) Passengers like to visit one of the
trains covered cars with open sides for a
closer look at the countryside.
(LEFT) It's said that quick justice at the end
of a rope dangling from this 1 00-year-old
cottonwood between Benson and Fairbank,
its limbs arching over the tracks, ended the
careers of some frontier desperados.
(ABOVE) An old building at the ghost town
of Fairbank was once a store owned by
joe Goldwater, the great-uncle of former
U.S. Sen. Barry Goldwater.
SAN PEDRO AND SOUTHWES TE RN RA I LROAD
through Tucson, the San Pedro enters Ari­zona
from Mexico and flows from south to
north. In a way, it is an upside-down river
because it drops about 2,500 feet from the
point in the south where it enters Arizona to
the point in the north, near Winkelman,
where it joins the Gila River. long ago the
river developed a r.eputation that sets it
apart, based on the belief that even when it
is reduced to a mere trickle, just prior to the
summer rainy season, the San Pedro still
manages to sustain one of the richest wild­life
populations in the United States.
This rare river in the desert supports
between 250 and 2 75 species of birds,
80 species of mammals, and 30 to 40 spe­cies
of herptiles (reptiles and amphibians).
Among the birds are great horned owls,
Harris' hawks, vermilion flycatchers, blue
grosbeaks, summer tanagers, warblers,
thrashers - and gray hawks, which is why
the railroad named its diesel locomotive
Gray Hawk.
The terrain through which the train pass­es
also holds a treasure trove of fossils from
the end of the last Ice Age, some 40,000
years ago. Archaeologists working in the
San Pedro Basin have uncovered numerous
bones of long-extinct mammoths, giant ele­phants
that prehistoric men hunted with
spears. One of the most famous mammoth
kill sites in North America is located at
Hereford. (See Arizona Highways, Nov. '92.),
roughly 20 miles southeast of Charleston.
We rolled through this countryside at a
comfortable speed until we reached the
turnaround point at Charleston, some 10
miles southwest of Tombstone. There the
engine was uncoupled and reconnected at
the rear end for the return journey.
As we waited for the engine to rejoin the
train, I looked toward the old bridge that
spans the river west of the tracks and won­dered
what it would be like there after sun­down.
Total darkness, I decided, as there
are few inhabitants hereabouts. ln fact, the
only permanent "inhabitant" was one I'd
heard about nearly 20 years ago.
I was in Sierra Vista and knew I'd be
headed to Tombstone that night along the
Charleston Road, a lonely rural rome that
forms a diagonal line connecting the two
towns. I mentioned this to a friend who
lives in Sierra Vista.
'Td be careful of that road," he said.
"Yes, it's kind of twisty here and there,"
1 agreed. I'd driven it many times.
"That's true," he said, "but that's not
what you have to be careful of. You gotta
watch out for the three-headed horse."
I checked his eyes and decided he was
sober. "The three-headed horse?" I repeat­ed.
He offered the following:
"Many years ago, three men on horses
crossed the Charleston Road near thenar­row
bridge over the San Pedro River. A
truck came barreling along and hit them,
killing all three.
"Now whenever there is a full moon, a
horse with three heads appears on the
bridge. The horse, which has one red eye,
one blue eye, and one yellow eye, shines a
light into your car to see if you are the truck
driver who killed the three horsemen."
I didn't believe the story, of course, but
I nearly jumped out of my skin when a
blast from the train's whistle brought me
out of my reverie. We were continuing our
journey, heading north back to Benson.
However, about eight miles above Charles­ton
we stopped again, this time for an en­tertaining
45 minutes at Fairbank, a ghost
town that was an important junction when
the line connected Benson with Mexico. A
branch line extended from Fairbank to the
mines at Tombstone, where N.K Fairbank,
owner of the Grand Central Mining Co.,
resided. In a mesquite grove surrounded by
the ramshackle remains of Fairbank, we en­joyed
a cowboy lunch (it cost $7) prepared
by the nearby Ironhorse guest ranch.
We also had a chance to see "Bullwhip
Smith" in action. Bullwhip is actually jerome
Smith, an actor who worked Renaissance
fairs for many years before he and his wife,
Terry, became regular performers living and
working at the Ironhorse.
In the melodrama they put on during my
trip, Terry played the part of Bullwhip's sis­ter,
a young lady who was very pregnant,
and another thespian, Bobby Stevens, played
the role of the sheriff. Bullwhip was deter­mined
to find the miscreant who had put
his sister in a family way and then vanished.
Sister eventually sniffed the lowlife out - an
unsuspecting passenger, whose wife did not
seem particularly surprised by the allegation.
WHEN YOU GO
Before and after the skit, the Ironhorse
Westernaires serenaded us with old-time
cowboy songs.
Following this relaxing interlude, the
train started again for Benson, slowly pass­ing
the remains of the Presidio of Santa
Cruz de TeiTenate, one of the most remark­able
historic sites in southern Arizona. The
presidio reminds us the Spanish were the
first Europeans to settle the land along this
train route. later, in 1821, it became part
of Mexico after the country gained its inde­pendence
from Spain. When the Spaniards
controlled southern Arizona, known then
as Pimeria Alta, they established three
presidios, or forts, including the one at
Terrenate. Its ruins, more than 200 years
old, lie exposed on a hillside adjacent to
the railroad tracks.
Gradually the train meandered to the
northern border of the San Pedro Ripar­ian
National Conservation Area. A few
miles before we returned to the tiny depot
at Benson, Rose concluded his mono­logue
on history, the vegetation, the rea­sons
for washes, and the absorption rates
of desert soils, and started singing over
the P.A. system.
This ride through the high desert makes
a relaxing diversion, and Rose is clear­ly
one of the more popular ingredients.
Toward the end of the journey; passengers
received a questionnaire asking what they
liked or didn't like about the experience.
'Tve been astounded at the positive re­sponse,"
said Rose, whose popularity with
the passengers ranks just a notch below
that of Wyatt Earp. ~
Sam Negri, also wrote the story in this issue about opal
mining.
Phoenix-based Errol Zimmerman had photographed
many train excursions in Europe and japan, but this story
provided his first opportunity to take pictures on an
A1izona tourist train excursion.
T he four-hour 27-mile ride operates Thursday-Sunday, departing Benson at 11 A.M.
.1 Enclosed cars are heated and air-conditioned. If you're going to sit in an outside car
in cooler months, bring a blanket. Passengers also can bring lunch if they prefer not to
buy the barbecue meal at Fairbank. Snacks and beverages can be purchased on board.
Benson is three hours southeast of Phoenix via Interstate 10, or 50 minutes east of
Tucson. Rates and reservations: (520) 586-2266, or write the
railroad, P.O. Box 1420, Benson, AZ 85602.
Other Train Excursions:
Grand Canyon Railway offers day trips from Williams to
the Canyon. Packages that include guided ground tours and
overnight lodging at the Canyon also are available.
Information: toll-free (800) THE TRAIN.
Verde Canyon Railroad offers four-hour, 40-mile excursions
through the Verde Valley. Overnight in Sedona packages are
available. Information: toll-free (800) 293-7245.
I Grdnd Canyon A~ational Park
WI.Ll iAMS
' Vadt
PHOENIX Valley
* TUCSON
• BENSON
Fairbank"·. •T-OMBSTONE Oiarle51on
Arizona Highways 43
WIT S TOP
•..................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................•
TEXT BY GENE PERRET
ILLUSTRATION BY ROBERTA HANCOCK
A Riverboat
Gambler?
In Your Dreams
A Mississippi-style paddle ..nwheeler called the Colo­rado
King I runs excursions
along the Colorado River from
September through May. The
trip begins at Fisher's Landing
on Martinez Lake and goes to
Imperial Dam and back. And,
of course, somewhere on the
boat there's a gift shop.
My wife said, "Let's go to the
gift shop."
I said, "No, you go on. I'll
just relax here on the deck chair
and watch the river go by."
I fell asleep on that chair
and dreamed of the days when
riverboat gamblers rode paddle
wheelers and played high
stakes poker.
In my dream, I spotted a
table with an empty chair and
knew immediately that three
poker players occupied the
other chairs because they
looked like poker players;
they acted like poker players;
they smelled like poker play­ers.
The poker game they were
playing helped a bit, too.
One was a bowler-hatted
dude. One was a filthy mess
with scraggly hair on his head,
his chin, and under his nose.
His face looked like it need­ed
a gardener. One looked like
Clark Gable in Gone With the
Wind. When I said, "Do you
mind if I sit in?" I expected
him to say, "Frankly, my dear,
I don't give a damn."
Instead he asked, "Do you
play poker, stranger?"
I laughed. None of them did.
"Do I play poker?" I laughed
again. None of them did again.
I sat down.
"Do I play poker?" I repeated.
44 September 1996
"My wife and I play poker three
Saturdays a month with two
other couples. On the fourth
Saturday, we play Pictionary,
which I actually play better
than I do poker. I don't sup­pose
any of you would be in­terested
in playing Pictionary?"
None of them answered.
Pigpen just spat a stream of to­bacco
juice toward the cuspidor
on the floor by his feet and, un­by
my feet also. Ten
percent went into the cus­pidor,
90' percent went over
the toes of my previously white
Nike walking shoes. He either
had bad aim or very good aim.
Clark Gable shoved stacks of
poker chips my way and start­ed
dealing.
1 said, "My cards are sticky."
Pigpen said, "Baloney."
The "Ba" in "Baloney" sprayed
a tobacco juice pattern all over
my pink Izod .shirt. I under­stood
why the cards were sticky
I lost with a pair of eights
and a pair of twos to Bowler
Hat who had three fours. I said,
"We generally make twos wild,
so I would have beaten your
three of a kind with my four of
a kind."
He pushed back his coat and
began rubbing the sidearm
which I just noticed he wore.
In our friendly game with the
other couples we don't per­mit
any weapons, except of
course for the knife to spread
the cheese dip on the crackers
that we always serve during the
game. These gentlemen didn't
serve crackers and cheese.
The next hand, I had an
eight-high straight. Not bad,
but the other guys seemed to
be happy with their hands, too.
When the bet came around to
me, I said, "Forfulflushstray."
Clark Gable said, "Excuse
me?"
I said, "Oh, I was just talking
to myself. In order to know
what beats what I say 'for­fulflushstray.'
That reminds
me that four of a kind beats a
full house which beats a flush
which beats a straight. Then
there's three of a kind, two
pair, and ....
"
Bowler Hat slammed his gun
on the table. Pigpen shouted,
"Baloney!"
It didn't bother me. It was
an old shirt. I was about to get
rid of it anyway.
I lost to a flush.
Now it was my deal. I said,
"I know a fun game. Let's play
Peekie Peekie Boo Boo."
They all shouted "What?"
like a trio of well-rehearsed
back-up singers.
I said, "It's easy. You'll learn
it very fast. Now red threes,
fives, and nines are wild. Black
fours and face cards are wild,
too. If the first card you get is a
seven, then it reverses all the
wild cards. You see, red fours
and face cards are wild . . . ."
Pigpen grabbed me by the
throat and Bowler Hat stuck
his weapon up against my
nose. Clark Gable scraped all
my chips into his plantation
hat. Apparently I was out of the
game and gone bust.
Digpen kept shaking me and
rshaking me ... until I woke
up. It wasn't Pigpen at all who
was shaking me; it was my wife.
"Wake up, honey. Wake up."
What a relief. I was in the
present day, riding the Colorado
King I toward Imperial Dam. It
had all been a fantasy. I hadn't
lost a fortune at all.
My wife said, "Let me show
you all the things I got in the
gift shop."
She showed me. I had lost
a fortune. 􁪽􋴀
LEGENDS o F THE Los T
•..................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................•
TEXT BY
ILLUSTRATIONS
WilliaIll B. Rood
and the Treasure
of Rancho
de Los Yumas
ounces from placer deposits
there, including nuggets weigh­ing
upward of four pounds.
Gold mayor may not have
been the reason that a man
named William B. Rood sold
his ranch south of Tucson in
1862 and then established a
large cattle operation just south
of La Paz along the eastern
bank of the Colorado River.
When Rood drowned in the
Colorado's flooding waters
eight years later, however, a
number of people believed he'd
left considerable quantities of
nuggets and coins buried in
cans around his ranch. Some of
those people also believed that
"'\.lu won't find La Paz, Ari­i
uzona, on road maps, but
for a brief period in the 1860s,
it boasted the largest popula­tion
of any town in the state.
The reason for its short but
glorious existence, not sur­prisingly,
was gold. Prospec-tors
recovered
more than
100,000
46 September 1996
JIM BOYER
BY KATERI WEISS
the drowningwas not acciden­tal,
as had been reported, but
that Rood had been knocked
from his small skiff by his ranch
foreman, who knew where the
gold was hidden.
If Rood had amassed a for­tune
in gold since coming west
in 1849, it hadn't come quickly
or easily. Not that this had
bothered him too much. Rood
prided himself on his ability to
survive and thrive among the
many hazards of the frontier
West. On his foray into Califor­nia,
he got lost in Death Valley
with several dozen other Forty­niners.
In the month it took
them to find their way out of
the Mojave Desert, most of the
emigrants became too exhaust­ed
even to carry their guns.
One man buried $6,000 in gold
because he could no longer
bear the weight. Rood not only
held onto his rifle, but in two
canyons along the way he took
the time to carve his name and
the year, 1849, on boulders
(these carvings later helped
historians trace the path of the
Death Valley Forty-niners).
After some ill-fated attempts
at mining and other business
prospects in California, Rood
came to Tucson around 1855.
Within a few years, he owned
fruit tree orchards and a ranch
40 miles south of town.
In 1859 he wrote a letter to
the editor of the Weekly Arizon­ian:
"Some persons insist that it
never rains in this country, and
that this is all a desert; but that
I can assure you is false, for I
have over two hundred head of
cattle in the middle of one of
those wonderful places that
people die for want of water
and food, and my cattle are fat
and doing as well as in any
other part of the country."
Rood also became briefly fa­mous
for skirmishing with a
band of Apaches that began
chasing him while he was rid­ing
near his ranch. The story
has since been recounted in
print numerous times. This
version, written by a cavalry
officer, appeared in The Tucson
Citizen:
'Just as the pursuing Indians
were upon him, he flung him­self
into a willow thicket and
there made his fight. A circle
was formed around him by the
yelling devils, who numbered
at least thirty; but he was too
cool a man to be intimidated
by their infernal demonstra­tions.
For three hours he kept
them at bay with his revolver,
although they poured into the
thicket an almost continuous
volley of rifle shots and arrows.
A ball struck him in the left
arm, near the elbow, and nearly
. ..................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................•
disabled him from loss of
blood. He buried the wounded
part in the sand and continued
the fight until the Indians, ex­asperated
at his stubborn re­sistance,
rushed up in a body,
determined to put an end to
him at once. He had but two
shots left. With one of these he
killed the first Indian that ap­peared,
when the rest whirled
about and stood off ....
"
Rood moved to Yuma Coun­ty
in 1862, shortly after famed
mountain man Paulino Weaver
discovered (or was shown by
Indians) a rich goldfield north
of present-day Yuma. It's likely
that Rood was involved in
prospecting to some extent, but
most of his energy seems to
have been focused on more se­cure
forms of income. Along
with his Rancho de Los Yumas,
which by one estimate had
4,000 head of cattle, he ran a
meat market in La Paz. He also
supplied beef to the soldiers at
Fort Yuma and firewood to the
steamers that came up from the
Sea of Cortes.
On April 29, 1870, Rood set
across the Colorado River to
pay his Indian workers. He was
in a small rowboat with his
foreman, Alex Poindexter. The
next time Rood touched shore
was several months later when
his body washed up on a beach
miles downstream. Poindexter
claimed the boat flipped when
it caught on a snag. He said he
had survived by clinging to the
boat, but that Rood had been
swept away.
Was Rood murdered? His
daughter certainly believed so.
Years later she told her son that
as an old man Poindexter was
overcome with guilt and con­fessed
to knocking her father
overboard by hitting him in
the head with an oar. There is
no record of what his motive
might have been, but hidden
gold is one plausible answer.
At the time of his death, the
only money Rood was known
to have was a few hundred
dollars on deposit with local
merchants - not a lot of sav­ings
for a successful rancher
and businessman.
A lot of digging went on
around Rood's ranch in later
years - and Poindexter was
among those who showed up
with a shovel. If he found any­thing,
he never mentioned it.
In 1896, however, a laborer
named Alfredo Pina allegedly
discovered $1,000 in gold
coins in a can hidden in an
adobe wall of the ranch house.
It was a substantial find, but
some said it was only a frac­tion
of what Rood had stashed.
Rood had a ranch hand named
Leonardo Romo, and according
to a story later written by his
nephew, Romo found a can of
gold on the premises while his
employer was still alive. Think­ing
the can had been poorly
hidden to test his honesty, he
took it to Rood, who said there
were more cans like it around,
but that the "big cache" would
not easily be found.
It's also possible, however,
that Rood himself spent the
money before he died. Though
he was generally known as
a responsible citizen - he
was elected a Yuma County
supervisor in 1868 - he also
was known to go on periodic
binges. A Forty-niner named
William McCoy said he once
saw Rood walking the streets
of Hermosillo, Mexico, hung
over, unshaven, and wearing
peasant clothes. Rood told
McCoy he'd blown $3,000 on
a good-time spree, and now he
was broke. Rood also intimated
in letters to his friend John
Colton that he was capable of
such antics.
The final twist to the story
of Rood's treasure is this: after
he died, several normally sane
people claimed to have en­countered
his ghost patrolling
his ranch on horseback. They
believed "Don Guillermo," as
he was known along the Colo­rado,
was protecting his gold.
Whether Rood's ghost kept
people from finding his trea­sure
is not known, but the
phantom rider certainly kept
some people away.
Mail carrier Felipe Gonzales
frequently spent nights in
Rood's abandoned ranch house
- until he too got spooked.
"This night I wake and hear
a galloping horse and the jingle
of harness," Gonzales later re­called.
"It stops outside the ran­cho
gate, and there is silence.
'Hola!' I cry out, 'who is there?'
No answer. I open the door.
The moon is bright, but no liv­ing
thing is in sight. I don't
stop there anymore." 􁪽􋵁
Arizona Highways 47
ARIZONA HUMOR
•················· .............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................. .
Fine Point of the Law
T he following report was pub­.
llished in a recent edition of
The Tombstone Epitaph under the
heading "Marshal's Log":
"A Tombstone man report­ed
he loaned his vehicle to a
business associate who failed
to return it. The county attor­ney
advised the vehicle could
not be reported stolen because
the intent to permanently de­prive
could not be shown.
"The vehicle was located in
Tampa, Florida."
No Sale
Edward H. Hunngate
Phoenix
I had made what I thought was
a fine sales pitch to an elder­ly
ranch owner, so I was quite
surprised when he turned down
my offer. 1 pressed him for the
reason he didn't buy, and he
said, "Well, if you must know,
it's because I've got my brown
shoes on today."
"Why," l stammered, "that's
no reason at all .... "
"Son," he said, smiling at me,
"if I don't want to do some­thing,
one reason is just as good
as any other."
M.W Cohn
Phoenix
Interesting Question
C or several years, I led Na-
1 ture walks and gave slide
programs and geology talks
when I worked as a park rang­er
at the Grand Canyon's busy
South Rim. I liked to encour­age
people to ask questions,
advising, "There's no such
thing as a stupid question. If
you're thinking of it, chances
are someone else would like
the answer, too."
Once, though, 1 fielded a
question that left me speech­less.
We were discussing the
hundreds of prehistoric An­asazi
ruin sites found within
48 September 1996
Grand Canyon National Park,
when a woman raised her hand
and asked, "I understand these
people lived here, but why did
they build ruins?"
Stephan Block
Cottonwood
Vacation Highlights
' X Then school resumed last
V V fall, my seven-year-old
grandson was asked to write
about his summer vacation.
Aaron decided to write about
the Grand Canyon because he
had recently visited it. How­ever,
we were all a little sur­prised
at what he wrote:
"This summer I visited the
Grand Canyon. It is a place in
Arizona with lots of gift shops
and a very steep ditch."
Wanda Sandoz
Mt. Pass, CA
Arizona Pride
Several years ago, my parents
retired and moved to south­em
Arizona. My father's regard
for his new home state was ev­ident
in his praise of the mild
weather, the panoramic vistas,
and intriguing historical spots.
But his passion for his new
home was never more evident
than on a recent trip to Cali­fornia.
While on a family pic­nic,
we were admiring the
"Perhaps we should postpone sand-painting lessons
until cold season is over."
TO SUBMIT HUMOR
Send us a short note about your humorous
experiences in Arizona, and we'll pay $75 for
each one we publish.
We're looking for short stories, no more than
200 words, that deal with Arizona topics and have a
humorous punch line.
Send them to Humor, Arizona Highways, 2039 W Lewis Ave.,
Phoenix, AZ 85009. Please enclose your name, address, and
telephone number with each submission.
We'll notify those whose stories we intend to publish,
but we cannot acknowledge or return unused submissions.
brilliant blue sky complete
with fluffy, billowing white
clouds on the horizon.
"Yeah, they're preny," my
father said, obviously unim­pressed
"But in Arizona, we'd
paint those clouds orange."
No Bones
Tanya Stowe
Lancaster, CA
Awoman from the East visit­ed
our RV gift shop this
summer. She referred to a ce­ramic
buffalo skull I'd made as
though it were a real one, so 1
hastily informed her it was not.
"Oh, I knew that," she replied.
"It doesn't look at all like the
real horse skull next to it."
"Ma'am," l said, patiently,
"that's not a horse skulL Hors­es
don't have horns."
"Well," she said indignantly,
"you just can't tell anymore
with all this crossbreeding go­ing
on, like jackalopes."
Harvey Mickelson
Flagstaff
Modern Solution
;\ local rancher spoke to a
.L\..group of kids at the library
about the use of chuck wagons
on the range. As a finale to his
presentation, he began to cook
Dutch oven biscuits.
The children gathered around
a bed of coals in the parking lot
while the rancher mixed the bis­cuit
dough in a big pan, using
the tailgate of his pickup as a
make-believe chuck wagon.
"Look at what the cook is
doing now!" exclaimed the li­brarian
to one wiggly youngster.
"See, he is putting in the flour.
Plop, there goes the lard. Is tms
the way your mom makes bis­cuits
at home?"
One little boy turned to his
[riend in total bewilderment
and whispered, "My mom just
gets them out of a can."
Delane Blondeau
Portal
ROADSIDE REST
• ···· ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................. .
Captivating
Yavapai County
Reluctantly Spawns
a Population Boom
It's dawned on us recently
that many close friends and
working acquaintances from all
the compass points have some­how
arranged to pass their best
and maybe final years in and
around Prescott.
There is the consummate
Texas editor whose wife now
breathes the clear, pine-scent­ed
air of mile-high Prescott, far
removed from humidity and
pollution. And the long ago
Virginia school chum, become
the renowned physician. And
the no-longer-sailing couple
retired from Ohio to a glassy
eagle's nest overlooking the
Verde Valley. And a former Cali­fornia
shopkeeper now dwell­ing
as a hermit in a simple
cabin in a remote canyon.
Not to mention the native­born
and in-state refugees who
get away from the hustle and
stress of Phoenix and other Ari­zona
urban centers. New and
old Prescottonians prefer the
open spaces and genteel life­style
of our state's first territo­rial
capital. Alas, in so doing,
each contributes to the boom­ing
population, and quickening
economy, of one of Arizona's
fastest -growing communities.
"Don't you ever, ever, ever
dare to write a complimentary
article again about Prescott, do
you hear?" a fifth-generation
daughter of Prescott pioneers
fairly shrieked at me in conver­sation
some months ago. "We
should have thrown a chain
across the highway when we
had the chance."
Should have, maybe. But
didn't.
TEX T BY DON OEDERA
IL L USTRAT I ON BY 8. SCO TT H AN N A
'X l ith its classic Yavapai
V V County Courthouse and
plaza, public forests, historic
Whiskey Row, romantic Vic­torian
neighborhoods, enter­prising
Indian landowners,
artistic expositions, and ath­letic
events - including the
world's oldest rodeo - Pres­cott
would inevitably attract
the visitors and settlers whose
sheer numbers would spur the
town to a faster pace.
Also working against the
wishes of my keep-Prescott­small
lady friend was the
personal charm of the early
generations of Yavapai County
people themselves. By illustra­tion,
when I was younger and
writing a daily newspaper col­umn,
a gentleman from Terre
Haute, Indiana, appeared one
day to explain why he was sat­isfying
a years-long ambition
to see Yavapai County first­hand.
Ned Bush by name, the
Hoosier testified:
"During the 1930s, I was a
reporter for the Courier in
Evansville, Indiana, and it was
newsworthy when a deputy
sheriff from Prescott came to
my town to pick up a prisoner
accused of an Arizona crime.
"I went over to the hotel to
interview the deputy. He had
on a big cowboy hat and ranch
clothes, boots and all. We hit it
off just fine. I asked him about
the West and cases he had
worked on and the country
where he lived. It was more of
a friendly talk than an inter­view,
but, as it was growing late
in the afternoon, I finally got
up to go.
"The deputy asked me to
dinner. He said he would be
honored if I'd stay and go on
talking to him, exchanging
facts about our two states.
" 'I'm sorry,' I said, 'but my
family will be expecting me.
My wife will have dinner wait­ing.
Much obliged. Thanks all
the same.'
'The deputy insisted. He said
he could get the hotel to fix din­ner
in a hurry, and we would
have some more conversation.
"I told him he was kind, but
wouldn't he please understand
that, if I didn't run on home,
my folks would begin to worry
about me. Thanks very much,
but no thanks.
"Right then, so quick that he
took me by surprise, the dep­uty
drew his handcuffs and
snapped one cuff on my wrist.
"He dragged me over to the
foot of the bed and snapped
the other cuff to the bedstead.
And this is what he said:
"'Friend, I'm from Yavapai
County. And where 1 come
from, when a man is invited to
dinner, he stays.'
'When the dinner was eaten,
the deputy fished up his key
and unlocked the handcuffs
and let me go.
"I've long since forgotten his
name.
"But I guess I'll remember
Yavapai County as long as
I live."
Ned saw the Prescott of
about 16,000 residents,
all shopping within walking
distance of home. The $harlot
Hall Museum complex was
expanding around the original
log Governor's Mansion, and
more than a few inspired cul­tural
leaders were parlaying a
splendid public school tradi­tion
into a flowering of statu­ary,
symphony, and opera.
Today, depending on where
the line is drawn, greater Pres­cott
counts some 30,000 souls.
Efforts have been made to con­trol
and plan for the growth
of Yavapai County, little of
which mollifies my first-fam­ily
Prescottonian who failed
to hang the chain across the
highway. Hers is the unwant­ed
inheritance of a people and
a place that is unforgettably
captivating. ~
Arizona Highways 49
B A C K ROAD ADVENTURE
•..........
...........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................•
Trekking
Buenos Aires
Wildlife Refuge
by Mountain Bike
BuenosAires means much
more than "good air" in
southern Arizona. It also means
fields of waving waist-high
grass, herds of pronghorn, vis­tas
of Arizona and Mexico, and
a place of rejuvenation for the
masked bobwhite quail.
Buenos Aires Ranch was a
cattle spread dating from the
1880s. The U.S. Fish and
Wildlife Service purchased the
116,000-acre property in 1985,
creating the Buenos Aires Na­tional
Wildlife Refuge. The land
was vastly different from its
preranching state because of
drought and overgrazing. Im­ported
grasses and mesquite
eventually so altered the eco­system
that native flora was
choked out, and many indige­nous
animals could no longer
flourish there.
Thea Ulen, outdoor rec­reation
planner at the refuge,
explains that the ranch was
purchased to return Buenos
Aires to the Sonoran savanna
grassland habitat it once was,
while, in the process, improv­ing
the conditions for the sur­vival
of the masked bobwhite
quail, once believed extinct and
now an endangered species.
Also reintroduced was a herd
of about 87 Chihuahuan prong­horn,
one of North America's
fastest animals, able to cruise
at 40 miles per hour and top
out at 60. Because of their re­semblance
to African antelope,
pronghorn are often called an­telope,
although actually they
are not closely related.
Most of the 200 miles of
back roads in the refuge are
50 September 1996
TEXT BY PHILIP VARNEY
PHOTOGRAPHS BY PETER NOEBELS
(ABOVE) When photographer Peter Noebels stopped along a trail in
the Buenos Aires Wildlife Refuge, he left his bike to go exploring.
(OPPOSITE PAGE) Baboquivari Peak, sacred to the Tohono O'odham
as the home of their god I'itoi, looms in the distance.
open to the public, and we're
here with mountain bikes to
ride one of the best loops in the
state. On a clear fall morning,
about 20 of us take off from
refuge headquarters and turn
south onto Antelope Drive, a
two-lane dirt road for passen­ger
cars and the principal route
for visitors who wish to explore
the area. Some of the first riders
immediately spot several prong­horn
loping across a plain.
Mesquite and prickly pear
dot the prairie, and wheat-col­ored
grass grows everywhere.
Much of it is a South African
import, Lehman's lovegrass,
nutritionally far inferior to na­tive
grama grasses. Refuge re­searchers
are systematically
doing controlled bums to elim­inate
love grass so that native
species can again dominate as
they did before the 1970s when
the foreign grass was intro­duced
to the region.
Looming behind us is Babo­quivari
Peak, at 7,730 feet the
most dramatic feature of Altar
Valley (see Arizona Highways,
Jan. '92). This magnificent crag,
sacred to the Tohono O'odham
as the home of their god I'itoi,
will appear to us many times
on the loop as we top a ridge
or climb out of a ravine.
More than 100 ponds are
scattered throughout the ref­uge,
so we are on the lookout
for some of the 300 species of
birds that live here or migrate
through in the fall. The first
large pond, Lopez Tank, is 4.7
miles into our ride, but it's dry
- and birdless.
At 7.8 miles, we reach our
first junction, a T in the road
less than two miles north of the
Mexican border. A right turn
would take us to Sasabe, a tiny
border village three miles away
We go left, leaving Antelope
Drive and heading east toward
the San Luis Mountains.
We reach our second junc­tion
at 11. 4 miles, a place
where three roads converge.
The right fork leaves Buenos
Aires toward Mexico; the mid­dle
goes to the headquarters
of the old Garcia Ranch (no
trespassing), now part of the
refuge. We take the left fork,
heading north on the most
primitive of the three roads.
For a truck, this is four-wheel­drive
territory
In 0.3 of a mile, we arrive at
the Garcia Cemetery, still main­tained
by the Garcia family Less
than a mile beyond the ceme­tery,
we climb into an area that
features lovely quartz outcrop­pings
and barrel cactus, ocotil­lo,
yucca, and desert broom.
Naturally everyone hopes
to see some masked bobwhite
quail, but that's unlikely: cur­rently
only an estimated 300
to 500 live in the wild on the
refuge (more awaiting release
reside in an aviary closed to
the public). So far I've seen
some Gambel's quail, a distant
hawk, and about a dozen Chi­huahuan
ravens, which are
BACK ROAD ADVENTURE
• ···································································•··· ........................................................ ................................................................................................................................................. .
slightly smaller than the com­mon
raven.
Our third junction comes
after 12.9 miles. A large mes­quite
with a huge barrel cac­tus
almost six feet high to its
right and three red barberry
bushes to its left marks the
spot. Our route will be to the
left, crossing Canoa Wash. But
we take the right anyway for
0.2 of a mile to Rock Tank to
see a picturesque windmill
creaking away. Then we retrace
our route back to that third
junction, now taking a right.
We reach our fourth junction
at l3. 7 miles. Going straight
ahead would take us back to
Antelope Drive, but we take
a right and head down a steep
slope, carefully keeping our
bikes under control, into a
wash. The slow climb up the
other side is a test of heart,
lungs, and legs.
At 14.5 miles, we climb a
ridge and, almost at the crest,
take a right fork. We missed
this tum the first time we rode
the loop, but our mistake sim­ply
took us to Antelope Drive.
This time, taking the right fork,
we head down into a beauti­ful
valley and through another
field of quartz.
Our now rather meager road
ends at 16.1 miles at aT with a
much more substantial route.
At this point, we've been out
for just about two hours and
have climbed 1,100 feet.
I comment to the group of
riders that I have never been
in a place where I felt better
TIPS FOR TRAVELERS
To reach the Buenos Aires National Wildlife Refuge from
Tucson, take State Route 86 (Ajo Way) west from Interstate
19. At Three Points, also known as Robles junction, 22 miles
from Tucson, turn south onto State Route 286. The refuge
entrance is 38 miles south, just beyond Milepost 8. The
refuge is open to visitors every day, and admission is free.
The headquarters is open 7:30A.M. to 4 P.M., weekdays,
except holidays. Even when the refuge office is closed,
the reception area is open, offering brochures and maps.
For more information, including times of tours and slide
shows, write the refuge at PO. Box 109, Sasabe, AZ 85633
or call (520) 823-4251.
Back road travel can be hazardous if you are not prepared
for the unexpected. Whether traveling in the desert or in the
high country, be aware of weather and road conditions and
make sure you and your vehicle are in top shape and you have
plenty of water. Don't travel alone, and let someone at home
know where you're going and when you plan to return.
about the use of my tax money.
Others nod in agreement, one
even intoning an "amen."
We turn left and get ready
for the day's final treat. There's
nothing like ending a ride on a
downhill, and this easy, gradu­al
descent lasts for 4.7 miles. I
(OPPOSITE PAGE) Prickly pear
flourishes along the trail
followed by our cyclists from
the Southern Arizona
Mountain Bike Association.
(LEFT) The bikers follow the
road through Altar Valley
toward 7, 730-foot
Baboquivari Peak.
stop to watch others passing by
and see one common denomi­nator:
everyone is grinning.
We rejoin Antelope Drive at
20.8 miles, just south of the
refuge headquaners, now a half
mile away. We retrace our route
to our starting point.
Few riders glimpsed any
pronghorn; no one viewed a
masked bobwhite quail; but
after this splendid 21-mile loop,
no one is disappointed. Alexis
Noebels is euphoric about our
ride, the longest mountain bike
excursion she has ever taken.
When her husband, Peter, ar­rives,
having photographed the
riders using my four-wheel­drive
truck, she exclaims that
on the toughest uphill climbs,
when she was gasping, she
could tell how dean and pure
the air is here. Peter smiles
warmly at her and says, "Well,
this is Buenos Aires!" H
Arizona Highways 53
MILEPOSTS
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Outback Boutique
Driving the dirt road into
Cochise Stronghold,
immersed in the tumul­tuous
days when the
famous chief and
his Chiricahua
Apaches roamed
this land and
tangled with the
bluecoats, I was
jolted back to the present by a
sign giving directions to the
Fashion Products Gift Shop. A
"boutique" way out here in the
Dragoon Mountains? I'm no
shopper, but this I had to see.
I followed the directions and
was soon chatting with Ursula
Pitz, who was glad to show me
her handiwork: sweatshirts and
Western-style shins decorated
with colorful Southwestern de­signs
which she sells out of a
room in the house she shares
w